Children of a Lesser God

Sign it right

At 3:00 today, I debated whether to go to the deaf school or simply make it another day. I ended going and coming home with 400 photos.

Now I finally know which wall makes the best backdrop, who makes the best sign models and what color shirt is needed to avoid 10 hours extra work on Photoshop.

A few months ago, the intention was to simply collect a few signs to use when teaching English. Now, I’ve ended up working on a small dictionary. Of course, there’s a big need for one, but it is a big project. A conventional dictionary can hold 40 definitions on one page, but for signs, we need photos and that amounts to four words a page. Sometimes we need close-ups or side shots and often times a progression of shots to capture what should be meanings in motion. I’m not sure how I got tempted into this project other than the fact that it is immensely fun. I leave the deaf school with my right brain refreshed. I forget to speak to people who hear and the usual thought-babble in my head is tamed.

Today I brought an American sign-language book. Someone had asked for one. It was more popular than the Thai one as they had probably been educated to avoid Thai signs to prevent Lao language loss. I was curious what they were seeing. The explanations were in English, but there seemed to be enough recognizable signs. I’m sure they would find ways to communicate if given the chance. For them, it’s probably only the resistant people who can hear that are the problem.

I can’t trust that I understand, but I’m sure one boy is saying that if he could learn enough American sign language, he could go to America and communicate with a wider world. I can tell that the book helps make this dictionary project real for them. More kids are volunteering to have their pictures taken. They will be thrilled to have their own book in print.

The kids’ personalities seem more vivid without spoken words. They live together in a tiny world and though they might feel fettered at times, I sense something very special about their world, so special that I won’t be able to find words to explain until much later.

They are neither miserable nor pitiable. I cringe when the do-gooders come. The other day a couple shyly handed out plastic slippers. On another day, a troupe of rich high school girls came to entertain, singing and screaming in shrill voices. How do the kids feel? They seem to play their roles cooperatively, granting the do-gooders enough satisfaction that they can go home feeling they’ve helped miserable people. Who is more miserable? Am I too cynical?

This is one my favorite pictures. You can guess what it means. This is the boy that wants to go to America. It’s a big dream, but you can see it in his eyes. He knows how to get there too.

"S" is for "Tiger"

I had to work in Japan to make some cash. Two weeks for good money doesn’t sound like anything I should complain about, but I feel wrung through a wringer. It was cold and I could feel the blood in my ears freeze. The chill wasn’t just the temperature, it was the sight of grim commuters marching in black that gave me the shivers.

I’m back in Vientiane. The tuk tuk driver ripped me off, but reading about increasing incidents in the Vientiane Times like this assured me that I’m not the only one. (Lao people get ripped off too). Anyhow, it’s warm enough here that birds can sing in the morning.

So what could go wrong now? The printer welcomed me back. We chatted a bit and then almost casually, was invited to see the mistake they had found. In the ABC book, “S” was for “Tiger” rather than “Snake”. The printer’s daughter caught the mistake, fortunately before the books were bound, but only after 10,000 had been printed.

My heart sinks every time I find a mistake, but the mistakes just keep popping up like pimples. In the proofing stage, people give a quick OK sign. Then after it’s printed, people spot mistakes like they were printed in bold. I myself, just can’t catch things because I’ve already seen the text a thousand times. I need help.

There was a short discussion about the options and then it was decided that stickers would be printed to cover the mistake. I told them to charge me for the extra labor, but the printer said we’re here to help each other. I know it’s about give and take, but I’m not sure if I’m giving enough.

Perhaps, they had all finished their trauma because they were quite calm about it - or maybe they could see that my heart was sinking like a failed bank and they wanted to support me. I marvel at how they can teach me to keep on going. Mistakes are mistakes. Let’s fix them and move on.

Selling in Xieng Khoung

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.

Peddling books

It took 2 years to get a book properly printed. I’d forgotten that I’d have to sell them too. After paying the printer for the whole lot, I woke up in the middle of the night with visions of what 6,000 books would look like. Then I thought about the recent floods and what mildew can do to books. Then I thought about the narrow road and how a truck couldn’t possible get in to unload the books. Then I wondered if the books would even sell.

Testing the water
I hadn’t sold anything since Boy Scout days when I went door-to-door with Jamboree tickets and kindling wood (not in that combination). Before college I went door-to-door to wash windows. It wasn’t bad money and I found my pitch. “I’m earning money to go to college. $50 to do your windows.” Now I'm in Laos. Why would someone buy a book by a middle-aged foreigner on a bicycle and speaking baby Lao? Well, as it turns out, just about everyone.

Being professional
I printed business cards. I bought a cell phone (hated them for years) and learned how to pack 100 books on my bicycle. I started with international organizations like UNICEF and JICA and CARE and whatever. I left my business cards, innocently left free samples and never heard from them again. If I sold to bookstores, I could sell around 10 books a day. At that rate, it would take 2 years to sell them all. The printer said to be patient. I decided to be impatient and take the books on the road.

Getting down to work
Selling “door-to-door” needs to be literal and that’s what I did. I’d mentally map out streets and districts and cover every storefront. With practice I could do a sales pitch in 20 seconds (too fast to be understood) and predict a sale by a person’s face. People started to stop me in the street to buy books and strangers approached me over lunch. One day a hotel called to order 300. By early December, one book had sold out.

Human behavior
Who buys in Vientiane? Women outnumber men. Private companies outnumber NGOs. Government officials outnumber school administrators. Who else buys? Dentists do. Beauticians do. Bank tellers do.

Feeding frenzies
Where else in the world is buying a book a social activity? I found that in Laos, if I got a key person interested, others would come and gather out of curiosity. People appeared from nowhere. It’s as if an emergency book-alarm button is pressed. After reaching critical mass, the indecisive become afraid that they will be left out and the final sales go quickly. Then, the next day I get a call for a few more. This works well in banks, government ministries and a specific insurance company in Vientiane. I really shouldn’t be selling in government ministries. Lao people are generally polite and good-natured, but one senior official made it very clear that I had violated protocol by knocking on doors without permission (She bought two books).

At one company, the commotion lasted too long. An employee quietly told me it would be best if I went outside. I thought she was going to order a bundle, but she whispered desperately that her Korean boss was getting angry.

At one bank, I was told that the director wanted to see me. I see him leaning way back in his chair (Lao people don’t put their feet on their desks) surrounded by other seniors. I’m ready to be reprimanded, but he buys copies for his children and everyone else does the same. Buying frenzies are moments in time. They often don’t work the second time around.

“A thousand ways to sell a book”
I catch myself at airports looking at the books about sales techniques. I’d never done that before. I didn’t see myself as someone with vacuum cleaners in hand and slick sales techniques up my sleeve, but with books, I learned quickly.

The customer is god
People can’t always be faulted for the way they behave. Some are helping me by testing my patience. My Japanese friend agrees that selling is a kind of religious practice though I’d say gathering alms might be easier. Monks don’t need a sales pitch.

Here’s the top five of customers that irritate me.

1. “Just looking” If I’m trying to sell 100 books in a day, I don’t have a lot of time. There is the type who reads through the book, page by page. I don’t know if they’re discerning customers or think I’m a free library, but after five minutes of careful reading, 99% hand it back without buying. One lady dared to tell me she had already bought one.
2. “Lower the price, lower, lower” First of all, the books are already cheap. They’re the price of a big bowl of noodles or two bottles of beer. I discount further because that’s customary and because I don’t like small bills. I’ve learned not to be insulted when they ask for a bigger discount. My first response was, “How dare you devalue my book that much!”
3. “Give it to me for free” In geographic pockets where too many NGOs have passed through, people think the book is free. They smile radiantly and their hands reach out to receive the book. I watch their hands freeze when I flip it over to show the price. Their smiles freeze too. One lady said that if I really wanted to help Laos, I’d hand out the books for free. Now, that really tested my patience.
4. “Why don’t you….? Why don’t you….?” Advice should be received graciously, but I have my limits. “Why don’t you write a French book? Where’s the Korean/Chinese/Vietnamese one? Why don’t you put the Lao on top of the English? Where are the accent marks? How about a book for car mechanics? How come you don’t write a dictionary?” I try to explain that I barely have time to brush my teeth in the morning, but by now I’m exasperated and sputtering in Lao.
5. Remember me? I usually get phone calls when I’m in traffic. I have trouble hearing. They often don’t announce who or where they are and I’m afraid I’ll sound rude asking, “I’m sorry, but who are you?” When they act like they’re my best friends, I have to explain that I’ve already visited fifty places that very morning.

Disclaimer
You must understand that I am not making fun of Lao people. I would bet that human behavior is consistent in its basic form across most cultures. I tell these stories for fun because the scenario of a foreigner selling books is odd to begin with.

Monks
Hmmm. Passing the Sangha College, it occurs to me that this is a good place to sell. The time is ripe. Novices and monks are milling around before their lessons start. I know that many are avid students. The teacher isn’t around so I take the liberty to introduce the books. I guess to be monk-like, they can’t show the enthusiasm of female bank tellers, but there’s a buzz. I’m keeping track of the samples circulating and trying to collect money, but instead of 10,000 kip notes, they’re paying in bundles of 500 notes, probably the denomination they get as alms. It’s hard to count crumbly bank notes when there are customers demanding more. One novice is saying, “Give me one” while another has his hand in my bag.

It turns out that several know me from Luang Prabang. They’ve probably given up on the miserable system there and have come to Vientiane in search of a better education. I explain why I left and why I got tired. “So, it’s better doing business than being a volunteer? I think they understand. Now there’s an alarmed murmur. “The teacher’s here”. I’m afraid I’ll be reprimanded for being a moneychanger in a temple school, but he seems content to wait outside. I know I haven’t been paid for one sample circulating. This has happened before and I won’t be outwitted. “I haven’t received money for one book.” Not a novice stirs. “I haven’t been paid for one book.” Not a robe rustles. “Somebody needs to payeeeeeee”. A hand pops out and I get the money.

Fat pants
By the end of the day, I have bulges in my pants. Kip accumulates in wads. Every so often, I need to take bundles to the bank to deposit them and it takes at least an hour to count and recount in preparation. There is a special room at the back of the bank. It’s the money counting room. Attendants wear facemasks, I guess to protect them from money dust. I think I’m bringing in a bundle, but I see many people come in with full garbage bags. The tellers check for folded or torn notes and then pass them through the counting machines. The room reverberates with the “whirrrrr” of kip being mechanically counted. So much for online banking. I guess in America, people don’t even use carbon paper anymore.

I’m happy to get it done quickly. Now in the role of a customer, it’s suddenly seems odd to try to sell a book, but it’s worked before. It’s close to closing and the ladies are pulling out pickled fruit so I quietly do my pitch. Sure enough, they buy them like they’re condiments.

No-go zone
I’m confident with the books. If people don’t buy, I tell myself that they’ll regret it later. However, there are places that don’t need them. Now that I’ve covered most of Vientiane, I know where the Chinese and Vietnamese businesses are. Most of the mobile phone shops are Chinese, but if I don’t know, I’m embarrassed after doing my standard pitch. “These are books made in Laos, about Laos and for Lao people.” Most are polite though and say they don’t read Lao.

I visited the disabled center. It’s divided into areas of people who can’t walk, can’t talk and can’t see. A blind student guided me to the office and I caught myself before peddling my book. Not everyone needs my books.

NGOs
On the other hand, there are NGOs that I’d expect would be interested, especially those working in literacy, education and more specifically about books. Their offices are harder to find because most are down leafy lanes in renovated French colonials. Many offices are air-conditioned to freezing and most do not warm to the idea of supporting my books. Some people are outright arrogant. I wonder how much effort it takes to sneer. I’m not sure why they do. Maybe it’s because of the budgets they handle and the attitudes that come with it. The Vientiane Times newspaper reports on one book project that has millions of dollars to spend on libraries. For some reason, I get the feeling that I’m supposed to beg at these places. I don’t beg.

Not forever
I don’t intend to be a book peddler forever. I’m trying to help young Lao people be good salespeople, but I guess they need to read more of those books selling in airports. One person jacked up the price to get bigger profits, but only sold a handful. I think others just gave up after a few refusals. I can count just two people who could really sell. I gave them a cut so they made a month’s wage in a few days. They would become “salesperson of the month” by default.

The schools?
This is Vientiane. I’ve sold 6,000 books and haven’t even reached the schools. Most administrators are distant. I suspect they don’t have any background in education. They don’t seem to understand the business potential in book sales either. One director didn’t really understand what I was doing and asked if I could print books for her cheaply. She complained that she had to photocopy hundreds of books for classes. “No, I wouldn’t do that for you because it’s illegal”, I tell her. She complains that it’s too expensive to buy and sell the real thing and she still doesn’t understand that’s the very reason why I’m trying to publish in Laos. I will not bang my head on school doors. In time, I’m hoping they’ll be coming to me. Isn’t it ironic though that schools need to be taught what students want?

Commodity trading
When books are rare, they become commodities. Someone told me that some books aren’t even put on the market, but are stashed away to increase their value. It’s calculated that they won’t be devalued through reprints and new editions because that depends on the budgets of international aid organizations. Publishing isn’t necessarily State controlled. Books are scarce because few people have tried to make and sell them. Maybe people don’t believe in the value of a book. The kiosk proprietor at the airport complains. “Don’t print the price on the back of the book. It’s too cheap.” She buys regularly and I never bothered to check what she sells them for. I just about dropped my book bag when I saw that she was getting $12 US for the $1.50 she pays me.

It’s true that I’m selling books, but I’m selling an idea too. That idea is that a book can be worth more than the paper it’s printed on. It’s not a hard sell, but it takes time, patience and energy – things that are not going to run out soon.

A big step in the right direction

Luang Prabang English Speech Contest
Article from the Vientiane Times
Martin Momoda

On March 11, 2007, five young Lao speakers expressed themselves fluently in English to an attentive audience in the lobby of
“@ My Library”, a space devoted to independent learners in Luang Prabang.

The five speakers expressed their love of their hometown, the theme for the speech contest. The three judges agreed that all speakers did well and deserved to be called winners, but chose to award the first prize of cash and books to Mr. Sainithar Soukhaphorn, a teacher of English at Teachers Training College, Luang Prabang. With two years of experience of teaching at TTC and years of hard study, he delivered a dynamic speech impressing the listeners with his fluency and clear pronunciation. He spoke of the famous attractions of his rural hometown on the outskirts of Vientiane and how the smell of fermented fish sauce always takes him back. Sainithar commented, “This experience will help me with my own teaching in the classroom. I can use what I learned here to pass on to my students.”

Among the audience was an American volunteer who praised the young speakers. “I had thought that in general Lao people are not used to expressing their personal thoughts and emotions. I was impressed how they spoke from their heart.” Sansany Keosavanh, a second-year student at Xai Pattana College was especially expressive when describing her hometown. “When I close my eyes, I can remember the sights, the sounds, the smells, tastes and feel of my hometown and I don’t feel lonely anymore.” She spent a considerable amount of time working on each gesture, voice inflection and facial expression. The result was a moving performance.

Mr. Seangpheath Southnavong works as a regular staff member at “@ My Library” and in his speech, compared the anxieties of city life with the peace of mind he can enjoy in his hometown. “Some day I will be back and watch the rice dancing in the fields again.” His dream is to farm and raise animals in his Khamu village so that his daughters will have more chances to be educated.

This small group of speakers was diverse. Though Ms. Sansany was the only female speaker, a Khamu and Hmong speaker could relate their own unique experiences. Mr. Keng Lor Xiaying came dressed in a special Hmong costume. “These clothes are used on special days and this is a special day.” He spoke of the unique religion, language and clothing of his village and expressed his confidence and pride in his ethnic background. He told the audience later, “I was nervous, but very excited and happy to have this chance to speak.”

Mr. Viengsavanh Ouansavad, a student at the law school in Luang Prabang took a literary approach and captured the audience’s attention with his skilful use of language. “Every second and every minute passes like water flowing, and we can never go back to the same place.” He spoke of his own personal goals and his determination to return to his parents and his hometown but only after reaching his goals. This speech contest was one big step in that direction. “I won,” he said, smiling and clenching his fist in victory after finishing. He knew that the competition was not between people, but a competition with himself. It was about overcoming fears and taking a big step to make dreams become real.

The speech contest was the first of its kind in Luang Prabang and was consistent with the goals of “@ My Library” a place that has provided an important space for learning for the last four years. It operates on private funds and donations and is run by Carol Kresge. She has created a space that is not just about books, but a place that is supportive to the individual challenges that learners in Northern Laos face. “By encouraging creativity, curiosity, thinking and pride in an environment that is fun, we empower people to pursue their interests and realize their dreams.”

Carol has set the stage for expanded learning, making events like this possible. The speech contest was also supported by the three judges Thomas Knoechel, Phouttana Sengsourigna and Renee Swire. The speakers were supported with coaching by Nina Carter of AusAid and Martin Momoda, an American volunteer. Nina and Tongchan were Master of Ceremonies for the evening. Mua Li sang Hmong songs he had composed himself and afterwards cookies and punch kept the enthusiastic audience chatting about until late. Technical staff included Yachengly, who recorded the event on video so that this cooperative event can be reviewed in the future.

The five speakers, however, deserve center-stage. “They will go far” was the comment of a long-term English teacher in Luang Prabang. With the first step made in the right direction, anything is possible.

Incapacitated by the thought of change

I talked with the admistrator of a private English school. I thought that I could help.

It took a full hour of questioning, bargaining, persuading, dramatizing, probing and feigning to get to the core of the matter. In the end, I think it’s something called, “incapacitated by the thought of change.”

He is clear-sighted. He knows how monumental the problems are, but he also has the right to be skeptical of someone so wildly optimistic. We agree that true change is going to have to happen on all levels: curriculum, teachers, students and staff, but our differences are about when we think change should start.

We’re sitting and talking and I look at the stick learning against the wall in the corner. It’s there for knocking off cobwebs, which of course are hanging thick, just inches above. Nobody seems brave enough to be the first to grab the stick. But when a student says, “Oh, so you mean I should just at least TRY?” I take that as the signal to start.

It’s urgent. When a student sits patientently in class, convinced that her confusion is her own fault, I think something’s burning. There’s a fire and it’s hard to watch people just sit and fan themselves.

Then the administrator says that if Laos isn’t ready when the doors fling open to the Chinese and Vietnamese, it’ll be eaten up like little chicken legs. (Well, not phrased exactly that way). “We’ll be colonialized again.” He knows there’s a fire, but admits defeat after trying and not getting results.

“Incapacitated by the thought of change” has a fancy development industry ring to it. When it comes down to it, I think it’s
just about cobwebs that need a good stick. There are many good reasons why people don’t reach for the stick. If I’m the one, what will happen?

Bicycle diaries

Happy New Year. Sabai dii reu mai? New years call for new beginnings and Bangkok began the year with its landmark opening of Siam Paragon, now proudly claiming to be the biggest shopping complex in SE Asia. Apparently Hong Kong has lost that title, though they have Disneyland now, anyway. I don’t know how you compare a shopping mall, probably through square meters or the distance you can drag your shopping bags to the next Starbucks. But these days, shopping malls are not just about size and quantity. In Siam Paragon, indoor gardens and aquariums have been created for a “total shopping experience” and remind you that there is a natural world outside of Bangkok. The idea has even been proposed to establish Buddhist retreat corners for those who are overwhelmed by desire and attachment to the material world.

Not everyone has the money or time to shop, nor the desire, and that probably includes the King of Thailand. It’s pretty hard to imagine the King shopping at Siam Paragon. What would he buy? What’s on a king’s shopping list when he already reigns over a country? A new Nokia is not going to boost his status. He’s king. But the present King is perhaps unique in his philosophy of economic sufficiency, or more easily understood as, “knowing when you have enough”. It’s based on traditional rural life and Buddhist thinking and became common vocabulary when the economy of excess crashed and burned in 1997.

Ardent consumers would need a 12-step program to stop shopping and contemplate an alternative model of economics, but in Thailand, it appears that the King is not the only one who understands when enough is enough. Chatting with a car parts salesman near the Thai-Lao border, I was told that, “life can be laborious, (lambak), but you can have peace of mind (sabai). A life of convenience (saduak), on the other hand, invites danger. (antarai).” Really, he said that. I think he was referring to his own life. He didn’t appear to be terribly wealthy, but could afford to lie in his hammock and wait for customers or for the rice to grow in his field. He also had time to chat and to give me this cryptic fortune-cookie-message to chew on while I bicycled through Cambodia.


Cambodia is not convenient, not necessarily safe and certainly laborious. There are no 7-11s and it’s quicker to bicycle than to take a train. On the road, I traveled with pickups filled standing-room only, tractor carts that served as school buses, ox-carts, horse-carts, squeaky bicycles, push-carts and of course, people walking. This was all under the hot Cambodian sun and often in clouds of red dust, churned up by the rich in SUV’s or Camry’s, one foot jammed on the accelerator and one hand pressed on the horn, warning us all to scatter like chickens.

Life is definitely getting better, though slowly. The Khmer Rouge was ousted in 1979 and UNTAC monitored free elections in 1992, though in 1999 Phnom Penh still looked war-torn. It’s hard to imagine how much pain and loss Cambodians have gone through. Now in 2006, the shiny buildings, palm trees and traffic-filled streets made me think I was in southern California. The city smells of rising property values. This is the city. In the country, ox-carts are still the norm and there are still many things to fear. If you don’t scatter quickly enough when an SUV comes, don’t count on good medical care and if you criticize the government too loudly, you may end up somewhere else.

So the hardships, inconveniences and dangers are easily understood, but what about the “sabai”? It’s a hard word to translate, but it maybe describes a peace of mind and heart and a state of well-being. It is the common greeting in Thai, Lao and Khmer. “sabai dii reu mai?”, “sabai dii bo?”, “suk sabai de?” How are you? Are you well?

Riding a bicycle is not “sabai” for Khmer people, especially if it’s not a new Taiwanese TREK mountain bike. The idea of bicycling 2,000 km across the country is probably something akin to commuting to work by shopping cart. The exertions of rural life are most accurately called “labor” not “exercise”. That’s why many are so eager to get an education, wear neckties and work in an air-conditioned office. “Exercise” is what people in industrialized countries do when they wear neckties, work in air-conditioned offices, grow fat and lethargic and are turned down for magazine covers.

Industrialized people have choices when contemplating gym membership, but farmers do not when it comes to labor. That’s why the car parts salesman’s cryptic fortune cookie message became increasingly mysterious. How could people be “sabai” with a life of such heavy labor? Exercising joggers certainly don’t look “sabai”. Even with iPods and customized running shoes, they’re usually grimacing as if to advertise, “I’m exercising! No pain, no gain!”

Now try to imagine the smile of the ox-cart driver, the farmers harvesting rice, the school kids dressing in immaculate white shirts bicycling through dust and potholes to school. Say hello to them and 9.8 times out of 10, you will receive the most expansive and glorious of smiles imagined. The smile spreads from cheek to cheek. It’s the smile of Janet Jackson getting her first Grammy. It’s a smile that gave me energy to cycle the last 20 km. This must be the smile that truly expresses “sabai”.

How can people smile like this? The past can’t be denied. Many have lost their parents. Some don’t have all their limbs. Medical reports say that post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) among Cambodian refugees in the US number more than 60%. During the reign of terror from 1975 to 1979, the Khmer Rouge, with the deluded dream to create an agrarian classless society executed millions. If you were an official, an ethnic minority, a monk, a nun, a classical dancer, an artist, a teacher and anyone with education, you were tortured and killed. Buddhism was desecrated and an entire cultural heritage was destroyed.

Some survivors made their way to Thai refugee camps. By the time they reached the border, they were “walking skeletons”. Then, the tables were turned in 1979 and it was the Khmer Rouge’s turn to become refugees. It was the venerated monk, Maha Ghosananda, who visited both camps with a message of forgiveness. He told them, “Hatred is not overcome by hatred; hatred is overcome by love. This is a law eternal.” Amazingly, both sides seemed to understand, as there are stories of how thousands wept upon hearing this message.

Maha Ghosananda has been called the Ghandi of Cambodia and has made peace marches throughout the countryside in an attempt to heal the wounds. On these walks, “everyone would bless each person with water, would wish them peace in their own heart, peace in the country. And people would just weep, especially old people.”

Wishing someone well may not be so hard, but blessing anyone and everyone unequivocally from the bottom of one’s heart is something else. One has to clear their heart from attachments and resentments. Maybe it is an expression of “sabai” when one can joyfully great all others with a light and open heart. “Sabai” has nothing to do with convenience and leisure.

I remember reading in the paper about some kind of reconciliation tours in Cambodia. Both survivors and perpetrators of Khmer Rouge cruelty visited sites of tragedy, such as Tuol Sleng prison and the killing fields. The remains are graphic. Mug shots of bruised and cut faces paper the walls. Metal edges of torture devices have recorded the flesh they have cut. Human skulls, piled up like bowling balls, speak of the final results. At first separated, the two groups gradually merged after several days. Victims and perpetrators together. There are no words in the human vocabulary that can describe what happened, but it appears that through the weeping and anger, healing was possible. What is clear is that it did not happen through retribution. This is quite astounding.

In Cambodia, a whole generation of teachers, writers and monks were annihilated. Yet 25 years later, it seems that there are people who have reached a supreme level of human development where healing and peace is understood. Perhaps the common farmer in the ox-cart who expresses “sabai” with the wide smile also understands something terribly profound and precious.

As a legacy of the Khmer empire, the ruins of Angkor Wat are monumental, but the human spirit of the common people I met represent the country’s true magnificence. In comparison, the edifices of shopping malls pale in comparison. I vote Cambodia as the most astonishing place in 2006.

The Land of Smiles II

I wring my hands when I see beautiful old buildings torn down, but try to check my romanticism about “slow development”. I'm not much of a capitalist or a consumer, but that's really no excuse for criticizing other who think otherwise.

Nonetheless, I haven’t met anyone really enamored by the progress here in Vientiane. Thanks to a Singaporean consortium, the old morning market will soon be walls of curved glass. Last night my friend Tee trashed it. “Why tear something down that’s only 15 years old. How long will this new one last before it’s torn down? It’s not like our country has money to burn.”

He told me about irrigation systems. Most of them have been built around the capital city, but farmers around Vientiane have found they can make more money selling their land than tilling it. People then buy the property, fill in the fields and build houses. Now the system irrigates housing projects. Rural areas are still stuck with one crop a year if they’re lucky.

He said that we have to remember that everything has a limit. It’s just a matter of time before everything will be used up. I thought he was talking about ethics and asked if it came from Buddhism. He said, “Are you kidding? It’s a fact of life!”

He’s one of several young talented and dispirited men I have met recently. Last night I talked to someone who works at the Ministry of Industrial Development. He said he is busy and bored. He didn’t mince his words when talking about c****ption.

He asked what my research is about. Hell if I can say “metacognitive functions” in Lao. It came out sounding like I was researching creative thinking among rural kids. He said, “You have to feed them first. You have to take care of their health.”

He complained of the lack of coordination among development agencies. “They send medicine to be stored in refrigerators that don’t work. In the end, it gets thrown out. He said it’s the same problem with everything. They get new machines, but no spare parts, new technologies, but no technicians so everything ends up in the dump pile. He was quite agitated at this point.

I mentioned that I had noticed stress on people’s faces. He misunderstood me, thinking I was saying how everyone looked so “sabai” and laid back since that’s how Laos is marketed. “Don’t be deceived by the surface”, he says. “Underneath, lots of people are distressed.”

It makes sense. Coffee goes from 2 to 3,000 kip. Noodles up to 10,000. That’s a big jump when wages stay at 300,000 kip a month. If you drink coffee every morning, that’s 10% less of your wage. New roads and shopping centers and gigantic SUV’s on the road. I just figured it was a sign of prosperity. Well, not really. I could see it on the faces.

This guy said that 7% of the urban population is profiting from doing some kind of private business, but the rest will have to do without coffee. He said most families get by because they stick together. His older brother is in LA working and sending money. Older brother complains because it’s not any easier on that side either.

Bee said that as a part of development, Laos needs to feed its people, develop human resources and improve services. Services generally mean services for tourists. Bee says that Thai people know how to serve tourists. She says that they know how to smile all the time and Lao people should do the same. Dee disagrees. He says it’s not necessary for people to learn how to smile insincerely.

Spring 2005 In Laos

He’s drawn from a temple mural of Portuguese traders. The true picture of a farang. Pointy chin. Pointy nose.

He gets out of a dusty Toyota pickup, crosses the street toward us. We are sitting clustered at an outdoor coffee stall finishing breakfast - cold coffee, the 9 o’clock rush hour of Vientiane has faded. A crazy woman targets a regular, talking in a loud voice about everything.

When he gets closer we can see his T-shirt. Some international organization, some logo with hands clasped, some slogan “Laos – working together.” He can’t spit or slap his children. Everyone is watching.

He is together with his Lao wife. Or so we all assume. They have two children, one a little beauty and the other still wrapped in his mother’s arms. The wife looks rural. Green plastic slippers, Lao skirt frayed at the edges, dangling gold earrings and a face of beauty so exquisite that we are convinced she was picked out as the most beautiful woman in the village or district or province or the entire country of Laos for that matter.

We try to look little closer. They are a husband-wife, right? The child looks more Lao than farang. She has her mother’s eyes, but then it could be her father’s eyes too.

There’s a hush among us. I can see that the woman ordering iced coffee has her eyes fixed on them. A man waiting on a motorbike doesn’t realize he’s staring.

Not staring in the rude way of a voyeur, but eyes helplessly transfixed. There is something odd, something that strikes awe and stirs up confusion. When Lao meets foreigner beyond the simple exchanges of a tourist, is this what it looks like?

Is she a Cinderella? Is this is her prince charming? What kind of man is he? There’s just the rattle of tuk tuk taxis and the squeal of breaks, no pumpkin carriage or glass slipper.

If he works for an international org. he has the credentials of being supposedly humanitarian. He looks that way. But what motivated him to cross that wide gap, to commit himself to a life in Laos, to step away from where he came from?

You meet all types. Among the tourists, there are those who follow the herds, still carrying Frankfurt or Fargo in their enormous backpacks. Others want to blend in with the local dust. Some want to create a world different from the one they come from.

In a rustic guesthouse I’m told not to disturb the European woman next door. “She’s can’t hear”, they say. Later I hear her talking to the cat in French.

An American couple talks about Laos. She is impressed with the quaintness of Vientiane. “Where else in the world can you find dirt roads in the capital city?” She doesn’t know that it’s a new sewer system under construction. Her man reminds her of her romanticism and seems eager to go home. She’s trying to persuade him that they must continue on.

A woman from Beijing says she’s a car designer. I comment that she’s more of an anthropologist. She’s enthralled with the ancient customs of Laos and shows off her ceremonial baci strings, wrapped thick around her wrist. She has it all recorded on video to prove it. She’s had an authentic experience.

So maybe Mr. Farang has the most authentic of all experiences. Those who want to boast of their travel experiences are humbled in his presence, but would we want his life? How about Cinderella? Is she the envy of her village or do her new glass slippers hurt?

We ogle and wonder, but don’t even know what we think. I wonder too what will become of me, in Laos.

Beginning at the End of the Road (MA thesis excerpt) Chapter 7

OASIS OF LEARNING: TEMPLE LEARNING


In the morning, if you are up early enough, you will see silent barefoot processions of novices and monks collecting alms from the laypeople. In the evening, you will see the same processions of novices heading to private schools. This time the novices are in sandals and carrying book bags rather than alms bowls. In the morning they collect food, in the evening, knowledge.


7.1 Learning provisions

Boys and young men from throughout the rural north go to Luang Prabang to be initiated in one of the 32 temples, sometimes on their own accord, sometimes sent by their parents. If their first choice is full, they must look for another. Many prefer the centrally located temples over the quiet mountain ones as many boys are more interested in getting an education than meditating in the forest.
Being ordained as a novice or monk is a major option for boys of poor rural backgrounds. Their food, board and education are all free. There are special monk schools for elementary and secondary school students and they can finish with equivalent qualifications. The curriculum is the same as the secular schools except for the addition of Pali-Sanskrit and Dharma teaching and the omission of physical education and sometimes biology.
Not only are basic provisions provided for, there is also greater access to books and native English speakers. Sop temple has a library and several other temples have small collections. Novices are free to leave the temple grounds to go to private schools, use the libraries and Internet shops. Luang Prabang is full of tourists and chances to converse in English. Xieng Thong temple, the Grace Cathedral of Luang Prabang, attracts a steady stream of foreign visitors.
Even at a lesser temple, visitors are soon greeted by English-speaking novices. Others will soon join and by the time the conversation ends, there will be a small crowd. Those with more English skills and confidence dominate the inner circle, shyer ones listen from the periphery and the youngest novices play in the back. Most conversations are a mix of serious stories and playful joking. The languorous social atmosphere reminds me of chatting in a small village.
The novices and monks in Luang Prabang and Vientiane are well known for their language skills. Many laypeople say that they have benefited from studying with them. A highly proficient female English speaker credits her ability to the teaching skills of the novices and monks. In three temples in central Luang Prabang, I talk to three novices who are quite fluent. In fact, they are satisfied with their English ability and are ready to start learning Japanese. They know who the other skilful speakers are in the neighbouring temples and the general estimate is that a temple of 13 novices has at least one or two proficient speakers. Those who don't speak well yet are young or recently ordained.
Novice B (16) is one of the top speakers. He is entertaining and likes to joke, complaining to me that dictionaries don't list the dirty words. Regardless of his small dictionary, his standard vocabulary is wide, his sense of structure strong and his pronunciation and intonation natural. He is ethnic Khamu and comes from a village of 200 households. He explains that he learned English after just one year of studying in a private school. He says he teaches himself, gets help from foreigners and reads a lot. Mostly self-taught, he focuses on structure, grammar and vocabulary by using English books, newspapers and dictionaries borrowed from the temple library.


7.2 Reasons for proficiency

Novices study at monk schools, but the highly proficient speakers all give other reasons for their proficiency. They have free time, exposure to native-English, a supportive learning community, free choice, access to resources and a monastic life that is based on self-regulated, ethical and communal principles.
Time: When asked directly why their level is high, most novices answer that they have a lot of time and study hard. They rise early for prayers, gather alms, clean and eat breakfast, but other than classes and evening prayers, much of the time is their own. The average TTC student will say that they don't have much time, but they also don't get up at four in the morning. I live near some TTC students, observe their daily routines and conclude that they are not terribly busy. I ask a novice to compare, but he declines to make a judgment by saying that it depends on the person. “Everyone has different skills and different reasons to study”.
Foreigners: Most novices come from provincial villages or towns such as T Town and likewise come with very little educational preparation. Nonetheless, after a few years, most speak far better than the best speaker in T Town. Their English reflects knowledge of grammar and structure that is very different from the pidgin of market/tourist English developed when working in guesthouses. They have a better foundation supported by solid instruction and the availability of resources. Their spoken English tends to be more polite and appropriate for their status as novices and monks. An ex-novice who is a successful guide explains that he knows the importance of using proper manners and respecting cultural differences when communicating with foreigners. Many novices can learn important social and communicative skills by observing senior novices. Novice B may be interested in dirty words, but in the meantime, he has learned proper and respectful English.
Chanting and rote learning: One ex-novice suspects that learning Pali chants in the temple helps when learning English because of the similarities in verb conjugation between these languages. If this is true, it discounts theories that rote learning is not effective. In a 1973 study, Wilder found that rural peasants were more highly literate than expected and that rote learning in temples was successful in raising these literacy rates (1973:20).
Monastic motivation: The majority of novices come from poor rural families and many say that this is a reason why they study so hard. Another observation made by an ex-monk is that boys who like to study gravitate toward monastic life. There is a combination of reasons, but it is clear that temple life centres around learning. I understand that Buddhist meditation cultivates a clear mind and ask a novice if it helps. Meditation is not required, but one who is practised in meditation admits that it helps with his concentration. “We have to consider in the heart. Nobody can make your heart peaceful”.
A self-regulated life: Life in the temple is regulated more by Buddhist precepts than by a watchful abbot. The presence of the abbot is minimal and though individual characters differ from temple to temple, it is rare to hear of one who is a tyrant. Because of the regulations, novices are protected to some extent from the primary distractions of adolescent life. If they are interested in sex, drugs and rock-and-roll, Buddhist non-attachment is encouraged through the discipline of meditation. If a novice feels bored with the restrictions of monastic life, he only has the choice to study. Supported by peers and the community, many seem willing to do so.
Free time, a supportive learning environment and the freedom of choice enables novices and monks to regulate their learning. They are less constrained by class schedules, work and social obligations. Self-regulated learning is a part of Buddhist philosophy. Through meditation, people learn to observe, monitor and control their emotions. A mind free from the domination of ego and emotion enables one to discern between truth and illusion. A novice or monk's vow to monastic life is basically a commitment to a life of study, of mental and spiritual cultivation and self-regulation.
What is clear in principal does not always translate into reality and there is no clear empirical evidence that Buddhist philosophy translates into skilful second language learning. Yet, laypeople readily agree that many of the best English speakers are novices.
Communal learning and community integration: Though empirical correlations are difficult to make, there is evidence that communal ethics cultivated in the temple can contribute to positive learning, especially when resources are scarce. Learning English is not a requirement when learning the Dharma. Novices choose to do so themselves. When they are motivated more by personal goals than by grades, they are less inclined to cheat. They are more likely to share their knowledge. Personal and informal learning facilitates a means of scaffolding.
Older novices and monks often laugh and call the younger novices naughty. Essentially, they replace the older brothers or even fathers that the young novices have been separated from. They provide emotional support and life counselling. The younger novices, in turn, learn much from observing their seniors. They can learn social and communication skills. The aggressive student in T Town, on the other hand, lacked these skills and is reputed to have chased tourists away.
A key is still needed to keep track of the books in the library, but a deposit is not required. Good books are coveted, but life is intimately communal and there is less of a strategic scramble over resources than in T Town. Knowledgeable novices and monks can offer education services to the general public and sometimes receive financial support from donors and sponsors in return. Principles of co-operation are similar to those in a village and the novices, mostly country boys themselves, are familiar with this social system.
An ethical education: Communal ethics are not restricted to the cloistered world of the temple, but can be integrated into the secular world. Many employers favour ex-monks or novices because of their discipline and honesty. Even after disrobing, Novice A claims that he will keep Buddha in his heart. A tour guide in Vientiane says that he is often praised for his gentle manners and says that he will never be corrupt. Another ex-monk who works in a five-star hotel in Luang Prabang credits his experience in the temple for being able to control his temper with customers. A man in Vientiane guides his business activities on ethical principles, establishing weaving co-operatives for villages, designing electric cars and training graphic designers. Ethics are not sacrificed for profit and he complains lightly that he will never be a rich businessman.
Integrated into society, practical learning is promoted rather than compromised by ethical and communal principles and defies the assumptions that competition in institutions is the best way to promote learning.


7.3 Not in it for life

Most novices do not commit their whole life to the temple. Being ordained is part of a larger plan. There is no Buddhist university in Laos, so Novice A says that he may need to disrobe to continue his studies. By returning to the secular system in the last years, he can also qualify for scholarships. Most novices disrobe before reaching the age of 20 when they would automatically become a monk, a point at which the number of precepts increase dramatically from 10 to 227.
The ceremony of disrobing is done without fanfare, far different from the celebratory ordination. Leaving the temple only means shedding robes, not the Buddhist teaching. As students would not be expected to stay in high school forever, many novices know when it is time to move on. In any case, they are solely responsible for making this important decision.
Girls, however, do not have the chance to make this decision. There is no equivalent community for nuns and no other systematic system to provide safe housing for rural girls. Ethnic minority boys who follow animism rather than Buddhism must convert and though there are many cases of Khamu novices, Hmong student R claims that the Hmong ordain only when they have exhausted all other options.


7.4 Temple learning: Looking back

Though institutional learning in the monk schools provides a strong foundation, most novices and monks admit that their language learning has come from outside sources and inside self-regulation. The supportive community, the resources, the instruction and the free time contribute to effective learning. The temple environments are rare examples in which a balance between motivation, resources and learning spaces is achieved.
Temple learning in Laos is also significant in the way it is integrated into social systems, both within the temple and in the wider community. They offer important options for poor rural boys and provide a means for them to return something to the community. This community, however, is based in Lowland Lao culture and though not institutionally exclusionary, offers fewer options for girls and some ethnic minorities. In this culture, boys are expected to ordain at some point in the life to make merit for their mothers and though there are some older nuns in temples, I have never heard of a young woman becoming a nun. Temples will accept other ethnic minorities if they wish to ordain and there are many cases of midland Lao novices. For highland Lao, however, the cultural and social traditions are more distant and it is uncommon for them to ordain.

Beginning at the End of the Road (MA thesis excerpt) Chapter 6

MISSING RUNGS: LUANG PRABANG


Golden spires dot the hills of Luang Prabang. For many students, reaching the city is the realisation of long held dreams. Many, however, are distracted by other things that glitter and end up returning to their homes without the skills and knowledge they had originally sought.


6.1 City life for teenagers

Luang Prabang offers a range of diversions. There are food shops, bars, discos, a bowling alley and countless Internet shops. In the evenings, there is even a stretch of road that serves as a drag strip, though most kids are on bicycles. Late at night, I am told you can see young men sitting in the rain playing guitars. They are high on amphetamines.
A student at Teachers Training College says that 30-40% of the students are intent on studying and the rest are “nak laeng” - little gangsters or delinquents. This saga is played out in popular Thai karaoke videos. The poor parents toil in the fields, fuelled by the hopes that their daughter is studying hard in the city, but she ends up coming home pregnant and with a louse of a husband in tow. Some families in Laos don't have a field to toil in because they sell it to pay for their children's education. If studying in Luang Prabang is the dream of so many students, why don't they study?


6.2 Demotivation

Students in Luang Prabang do not necessarily represent the most motivated. Many of the poor rural students cannot afford the costs. 3.5 million kip or $350 US is needed for an entrance fee at Teachers Training College (TTC). The 7 million kip or $700 fee for Souphanouvong University effectively closes the gate to those who are not wealthy, connected or qualified for scholarships. Even those on scholarships can be easily spoiled by an all-expense paid life.
Academic standards at Teachers Training College (TTC) are not rigourous and everyone can graduate. Failing a class means spending three extra weekends of review. Grades and passing marks can be bought. After two years, students have the credentials to teach in a primary school and three years is enough to teach as a secondary school teacher.
There is no outright disrespect, but students are quick to point out their teachers’ lack of knowledge and experience. Students lose the incentive to study when they discover that their teachers are making too many mistakes. Furthermore, the miniscule job market does not offer much incentive to study. Many graduates teach in rural postings because of the scholarship agreements and many are eager to leave after their three-year stint. Unmotivated and unqualified teachers in the countryside continue to perpetuate the desperate migration of students in search of an education.
For those who never intended to study, there may be no help. Motivated students, however, struggle hard to learn and the exceptional students are not difficult to find.


6.3 The exceptional

Boun T is a female second-year student at TTC from Xaignabouri. She is outgoing and is not shy to speak. She seeks help from novices when she doesn’t understand something and prepares questions beforehand. When she has free time, she goes to temples to speak with foreigners.
We are talking and she jumps up to get some writing that she has done for me to correct. She says that she is happy when the paper is covered with red marks because she can use it as a reference. She comments that her Lao teachers only make random corrections and general comments.
When I first meet Boun R, he is reading Faulkner. He checks books out from the Sop temple library and claims to read three books a day. Coming from a small ethnically mixed village, he grew up with several languages, Khamu being his first. Though talented with languages, he was unable to afford paying the school tuition so he has come to Luang Prabang to work in a restaurant. He saves his money in a bank rather than spending it for school fees.
Boun M is also not in school. He learns languages with tourists at the guesthouse he works at. He goes to the bus station to pick up guests and can use Korean, Hebrew and Dutch as well as English. He is one of the best Japanese speakers in town. He says that he learns from foreigners and from self-study with books. I want to know if he is interested in teaching, but he says that he is stingy, not with money but with knowledge and wants to know a language that nobody else knows.
I am surprised that a Hmong student is not only able to pronounce difficult sounds, but can explain the different tongue positions. Many students complain about their teachers’ inability to teach pronunciation, but this student has learned the sounds by reading the descriptions in a phonetics book. He admits that it helps that he speaks Hmong since it is a language that uses many sounds found in English.
These four examples cannot represent a true cross-section of Lao society, but the cases of male and female lowland Lao and Khamu and Hmong men illustrate the diversity of backgrounds and approaches to learning. What is consistent in these cases is that all use strategies found outside of the classroom. They understand the limitations of institutional learning, but have taken the initiative to find resources on their own.


6.4 The not so exceptional

Many average students say they want to learn, but have trouble making progress. They say English is hard and they don't understand the lessons. Boun F is a student at the Teachers Training College (TTC) and considers himself an average student, but he usually gets C+s. He does best in reading class and worst in comprehension class. When there is a listening test, he says that he might as well just give up.
Without a good foundation, many students quickly fall behind and get lost. Boun L, also a TTC student says that one class is called “learning strategies”, but she is not sure what that is supposed to mean. The teacher never explained and she never asked. When I ask for descriptions of what is done in class, she says that they are learning the phonetic system.
One strategy that Boun W lacks is the ability to analyse word order. He comes from T Town to study at TTC and I want him to study hard so that he can save his town. He works part-time to make ends meet and says that he is often too tired to study. He tries hard to communicate, but lacks structural understanding. This is apparent when we work on some writing. Noun-adjective word order reflects Lao word order and he seems to use “is” randomly. We focus on one sentence pattern and work on a number of examples. He says he has never studied this way before as the teacher usually does rough translations without giving structural explanations. As we study, I have to ask him to shut off his mobile phone.
Porn seems to be convinced that she needs to understand phonetics before proceeding to testing her speaking ability. She works at a guesthouse, but is to shy to speak to guests in English. She sticks to a large book that lists words according to consonant and vowel sounds. She depends on the Thai transliterations which cause more confusion, especially with sounds that cannot be phonetically represented in Thai or Lao. She says that her country school in Sam Neua did not give her a good foundation. She is now struggling to catch up in a private school and must study with students much younger than her.
Each of these students tend to depend more on classroom learning than the exceptional students, but are hindered by missing rungs in the English instruction that they receive. They do not know how to find them. Most cannot explain how they learn and have not experimented with learning strategies on their own. In many cases, they are misguided or have reinforced bad habits and in some cases are on the verge of giving up.
The unexceptional cannot be dismissed as stupid and the achievers as naturally gifted. The sociocultural environments must also be considered. Boun J claims that many of the exceptional students are poor, rural and from ethnic backgrounds and that their hardships make them more determined. The temples are filled mostly with ambitious boys from poor rural backgrounds and the Hmong are known to score at the top of the class in school, but most of the rural girls have not made it as far as Luang Prabang.


6.5 The Hmong

Living with three Hmong brothers, I have been able to observe their study habits over the period of a month and can attest to their disciplined study and intensity of learning. Hmong student G is proud that many students from his hometown have excelled in Luang Prabang. One male student earned the second highest scores in the nation. I ask him why he is so determined to learn and he explains that the Hmong generally come from the most remote areas of Laos and want to prove themselves. He also suspects that he is working against a racial bias. His lowland Lao teacher is so incompetent that he wonders if it is on purpose and is a ploy to keep him from learning.
The younger boys in the family have come to Luang Prabang during their summer break to learn English. The father comes to check every week and the mother counsels when she has the chance. The parents are trying to educate all ten of their children. The oldest daughter is coming to town to enrol in nursing school. Hmong student G explains that the Hmong are becoming assimilated and that traditional values are changing. Girls still tend to be valued more for their labour, but are increasingly being encouraged to study. Any uneducated child is a shame to a family. Once the oldest daughter comes to Luang Prabang, however, she will likely be expected to do the cooking and will thus lose considerable time and energy that could otherwise be spent on studying.


6.6 Where are the girls?

Few female students leave the countryside and continue to study. A family that is strapped for resources is likely to spend money on the boy rather than the girl and when considering safety, many families think twice before sending a young daughter far away from home. In ethnic minority villages, girls often marry at 15 or 16 and domestic responsibilities leave little time for study.
Most girls who continue their studies come from district towns or Luang Prabang where families are more likely to have enough money to educate all their children regardless of gender. If a choice is necessary, the wiser investment is to support the child with intellectual talent. Girls who get good grades can also continue studying on government scholarships. In fact, there are more girls than boys at the university and the dorm is filled to capacity. Private schools are full of girls and women of all ages. Female students have a reputation of being better behaved, more attentive and more respectful of school rules. Boun R, admits as a male student that “boys will be boys” meaning that they are more apt to drink and play cards than study.
At the same time, the girls are not at the top of the 2006 class at TTC. Most of the English-speaking guides are men. Both male and female tourists say that they are approached far more often by English speaking boys than girls and two foreign restaurant employers complain of giggly girls without confidence. The common observation is that girls are too shy to speak out in class. Boun M and N are female 2nd year students at TTC who say that they don't dare to speak out. They are afraid of making mistakes, embarrassing themselves and angering the teacher. They say that this is regardless of the gender ratio in the classroom and the nationality and gender of the teacher. They say that they feel the same way in private schools. Only in small groups do they feel comfortable.
Many of the learning spaces in Luang Prabang are gendered. Males dominate the libraries and computer centres. Boun M says that she is intimidated by the novices and is conscious that it is a Buddhist sin to touch them. In a baci ceremony or in the temple, women must never sit in front of a man. No such explicit custom dictates seating in the classroom, but implicit pressures may inhibit girls from speaking out or asking questions. A female student explains that she loses motivation when the foreign teacher scolds her. In another instance, girls and women may be intimidated by sexual bias of another sort. A male foreign teacher says, “I don’t know what the present perfect is, but she’s coming now.” Sexual harassment goes unchecked and unquestioned when students have so few choices.
Gendered roles are decided in other ways as well. Living with three Hmong male students, I can see how roles are gendered by academic promise. The middle brother has been surpassed by his younger brother and is expected to do the cooking and cleaning while the others study. Not only is time taken away from his own studies, he loses motivation when he is aware that the expectations are lower for him. Most families are large and since someone has to do the work it ends up either being the girls, the youngest or those without academic promise.
The middle brother is nonetheless eager to learn and when I give him individual attention, he is pleased by his own progress. Girls too show equal promise. Many are just as inquisitive and outspoken as the average boy. Teaching in a private school for one month, I have found that many of the girls are even more active and outspoken than the boys, in particular, the novices who tend to be shy.
Social spaces must be contested, but in many ways, private schools offer more room for negotiation and opportunity. In my classes, 12 year-olds, novices, college-age female students and soldiers all study together, crammed two to a desk. Children can test their skills according to adult standards, novices have a chance to interact outside of the cloistered monasteries, girls are freed from their domestic spaces and soldiers are humbled by the difficulties of the future progressive tense. The motivated rural student can sometimes surpass the rich urban student and ethnic minorities who are not confident speaking Lao have a chance to excel in English.
Private schools represent the diversity of Laos. On one hand, there are contested struggles over resources and learning spaces. On the other hand, studying English is one chance for anyone of any background to compete on more equal grounds. If students had books, had teachers that knew English and had a chance to use language beyond the mind-numbing exercises of convoluted grammar, students would most likely bloom beyond expectation.


6.7 Luang Prabang: Looking back

The mix of class and ethnicity in Luang Prabang, fuelled by the greater abundance of money and resources, creates a social and political struggle for learning spaces and resources. I have been approached by the full gamut of learning groups and have listened to all their appeals for assistance. Novices deserve help because they are poor and rural. University students deserve a native-English speaker because they are studying at the top institution. Hmong students ask for assistance because they are discriminated against. Middle-class parents are willing to pay for Japanese lessons because they want the competitive edge. Government officials want help because their career track is narrowed without language skills.
Competition over resources and learning spaces can be translated into motivation. Luang Prabang is without a doubt, the premier centre of learning in the north. All people talk about is studying. The Hmong students from the countryside have no TV, radio or skilled person to play their guitar so they study from morning until night.

Many students have unlimited motivation, but appropriate resources and competent instruction are still infuriatingly scarce.