Tourists, travelers and traders

Nong Kio and Meuang Ngoi are small tourist towns, mostly because of the dramatic scenery and laid-back river views. Some tourists are interested in what I’m doing, especially when they start to see the same bright blue book all over town. On the other hand, I’m not sure if one particular tourist gets it at all when he tells me, “Enjoy your travels around Laos.” I could get huffy about the acquired differences between tourist and traveler, but I’ll put myself now in the category of “trader”. After all, what motivated all the explorers in history to do crazy things? They were all after something. If I’m a pure merchant, I’ll worry about my investments, my stock and my rates of exchange. If I’m a trader, I’m going to enjoy the fun along the way. I have 300 books in two boxes that I can hardly lift. I’ve got my bicycle and a laptop to protect from dust, mud and jarring tuk tuk rides. The schools I’ve targeted for Friday are closed because of a national holiday. Then, I go upstream and discover that I’ve brought only Japanese books. People don’t buy. There’s no boat downstream and I have to pay $25 US. It’s all in a day’s work. I’ve only sold a handful of books, but why complain? We’re puttering down the river and floating through warm banks of air. It’s the kind of warm air that rises off asphalt on a late summer evening, so nostalgically delicious. Water buffalos are…. In the water, with just their heads and horns sticking out. They haven’t moved since the time I passed them going upstream. They’re clustered at a good spot where cooler water trickles in and they’re eyes read, “aaah”. It’s a good picture to use in a text to illustrate the word, “cool”. There are some shallow rapids. If the driver didn’t know his river, we’d be banging rocks. Instead, a headlong surge into a small wall of water sets off a fine spray. It’s the feeling when you get when you stick your head out of a fast moving car and open your mouth. Exhilarating. It takes your breath away. There’s too much to breathe in. Traders always have something to keep them going. Tourists usually have time limits and think about home.

Stubborn Martin

Lao work is like playing dodge ball in heavy traffic – or whatever metaphor will work explaining that you can’t always get where you want to go, work is sometimes slowed to a halt and that accidents happen On the other hand, there are always ways to simply jump on another bus and try another direction.

I get a new idea and chew until its finished. The other day I found an empty storefront for rent right across from a major high school. The owner said he’d rent for 6 million a year (Something like $700 US). I wanted to rent for one day and give it a try. The floor just needed sweeping and I didn’t care about the sand lot in front or the reinforcing cables strewn around in the back. I needed a table, two chairs and some string to hang up books and make it attractive. Shop is open for business. No problem.

I had to talk to the son to get his permission. We were on the phone for more than 40 minutes. No language, English or Lao could convince him. I wouldn’t give up because he had no legitimate excuse. “The room’s not finished”. He said. “For me, it’s not a problem.”, I would say once or twice or eventually shouted three times to try to get through. It’s like those forest fire warning signs. We start with damp, cool and safe and progress to red-hot flaming. I went in for my final power shot. “You’re privileged. You’ve had a chance to be educated. Most people in Laos don’t have that chance. I don’t want this room for my own interests. I’m trying to help you country so that this miserable state of education doesn’t have to last forever. Do you understand? Why can’t you help me? I’m only asking for one day.”

I can sense a change in tone. He’s softening. I have the phone to his father to see if they can agree on a final deal. My phone battery is ready to give out, but he gives in. I’ve got a day.

His mother says, “He’s a stubborn bastard, isn’t he?” I can’t believe she’s saying this. I apologize for being so rude. “You weren’t rude at all. You talked kind of loud, but he’s got a stone head. My daughter-in-law is much more reasonable.”

They tell me that ten, mind you, ten people have called to rent the place and each time he’s said, “Oh, ho hum, I don’t know.” I’m the eleventh and the first to get through to him. Not bad for broken Lao. Not surprising for stubborn Martin.

Shop is open
We hand out flyers in front of the school gate across from our new shop. It’s after eight and the late students are streaming in. The stream includes late teachers. They’re ready to close the gate and then there’s a reverse stream of students leaving. It’s like a fish ladder with not many fish spawning. What’s going on with this school?

I decide to use my thick skin and get my way into the school. A teacher takes me to the administrator and I get ready for another stubborn moment. He understands, but clouds over saying that he’d need to clear it with this committee and that committee and that we’d need a microphone. I can see the read stamps.

Then I go again for the power point. “I don’t have time. I’ve come from Vientiane to promote books. You don’t have time, because your school and your country is bleeding. I’ve seen students streaming out of this school and I’ve seen students finish higher education with knowledge so low that they are unemployable. I just need three minutes for each class. It’s not just about books sales, it’s about inspiring them to study, to use their brains and give themselves a decent future.”

He gives in. I get three classes. The teacher takes me around and I end up getting to talk to eight. He’d be ready to take me to all 74, but I’m losing my voice. The students are OK. They’re fairly responsive and what you’d expect from teenagers, but many classes don’t have a teacher or if they do, they seem too sullen to be good educators.

I expect a flood of students to come and buy books. By lunch, we’ve sold one. We eat lunch and call it a day. This is not where we need to sell books. BounNgeun wants to sell at the ethnic orphan high school that he graduated from. He says it’s poor, but the teachers are strict, they care more and he feels he got a decent education. He’s convinced that students will pay for books with their own money.

We chalk it up as a learning experience. Later, a private school administrator describes the situations as “weird”. It’s “weird” she says. It’s weird that students say they want an education, but don’t know the value of a book. She says country kids want to study, but can’t. She says city kids have the chance to study, but don’t. It’s another mysterious, but convincing formula that can explain education in Laos.

It takes a bit of stubbornness. It takes stamina to explain to people about something they have no concept of. It takes persistence to stick with something that doesn’t promise quick results. It takes stubbornness to say, “No, we don’t have to settle for this.” There’s got to be something better than this.

Culture Talk

I chose this guesthouse for three reasons. 1) the price 2) the garden 3) the sense that the young man working the night shift was a bright-minded and ambitious student. I was correct on all counts.

Aside from just being smart and ambitious, BounNgeun is a wonderfully social person. I make it a habit to be back by 8:00 and we spend the rest of the evening talking around the table in the lobby. Guests come in to get their keys and there is a nightly procession of small conversations. In the course of the conversations, we’ve collected what he calls lessons in “talking culture”.

“Where are you going?” ເຈົ້າຊິໄປໃສ?
This is the first phrase that should come in any Lao language book. It’s the national greeting of Laos, though it doesn’t translate well for guests leaving in the morning. Nor does, “where have you been” work well when asked abruptly in the evening. “Why? Was I supposed to stay in my room?” is the natural reaction. We practiced, “How was your evening?” and he’s used that ever since. Where otherwise guests would march to their rooms, this greetings makes people stop in their tracks, smile and start chatting.

“How much did it cost?”
The other night a nice lady gave BounNgeun a big pillow. He really liked it and asked how much it cost. Her natural reaction was to laugh and say, “Well, at least $3,000 dollars. Why do you ask?” We had to get to the bottom of why asking the price is such a common thing in Laos. What we determined was that in a Lao phrase book, the following would be a perfectly natural conversation.

B: Why are you giving this to me?
A: This is a present for you.
B: Thank you very much. It’s so nice, but it must be expensive. How much did it cost?
A: It cost $5 US at the morning market.
B: Oh, it’s expensive. How could I ever return my gratitude?
A: Don’t worry about it.

It’s kind of hard to get up the nerve to ask, but I’ll try the next time I get something.

“May I be excused?”
I got kind of concerned hearing talking about table manners. I had assumed it was Lao manners to simply leave the table without saying anything because I’d seen it happen so often. Usually, someone would get a drink of water, pick his teeth and maybe just sit around, but away from the table. I’d lived near a Hmong family and ate every meal with them for six months and that was customary. I had even done so myself though I’ve always wanted to say something like, “Oh, that was a delicious meal” or “Thank you, I’m stuffed.”

He says it’s disrespectful and downright bad manners. He’s says it’s a sign of an unhappy family. Maybe I’ve been eating with unhappy families too much. I lived near a Hmong family and ate with them every day. Come to think of it, the silent meals started to get to me. One day the older brother said, “My stomach hurts” and I caught the younger brother smirking. That’s when I realized I wasn’t in happy company.

The woes of the middle child
My own older sister loves to talk about birth order. The famous book on birth order basically says there are three patterns; one for the oldest, one for the youngest and one for the middle child. I asked BounNgeun about the cases in which there are ten in a family. He had enough information to write his own Lao version.

There are endless combinations, but let’s say the oldest is a boy and the four that follow are girls. It’s a pretty good set-up. The oldest boy has it made and doesn’t have to lift many fingers. The younger sisters can work in shifts and share the housework.

If they’re all boys, it’s hard on the parents because of dowries. Of course this varies according to ethnic groups, but they’ve got a big financial burden if they want to marry them all off.

In Khamu culture, the youngest child inherits the family fortune, if there is one. At the same time, he/she is responsible for taking care of the parents. In both cases, the spouse comes to live with the youngest child’s family. A man might be happy to marry into the wife’s family and have the security of the future inheritance, but he is always in a bit subservient position. I knew of someone in that position and he wasn’t the happiest guy around. What happens if both are the youngest? There’s discussion until a reasonable agreement is made.

“Good luck”
A: “I’m leaving first”.
B: “Good luck”.

That’s how it’s said in Lao when people part. It makes sense, but doesn’t always sound right in English. The other night, a young honeymoon-type couple stopped to chat and then excused themselves to go to bed. BounNgeun said “good luck” and they laughed.

I explained that in English “good luck” is usually used when someone is concerned if they will succeed at something or not. If BounNgeun says, “good luck” to guests who are taking a trip north on a Lao bus, they might start to wonder if they’re going to come back alive.

When useful language is learned, there’s always the joy of testing it out. The next morning, it was only natural to say, “good luck” to each other when we left to sell books. “Good luck and sell a million.”

“You’re fat”
BounNgeun was getting pretty good at charming the guests with, “How was your evening?” One night he followed that up with, “Oh, you’re fat” while patting the guest’s tummy. The guest’s smile pretty much froze and there was no comment made on such an accurate observation.

I was in an herbal sauna once and a really, really big guy walked in. The other guy who was not so petite himself immediately asked, “So, how much do you weight?” I figured it wasn’t the rudest thing to say on earth because the big guy answered that he was easily over 100 kg and then they continued to talk about his weight in detail.

In fact, I don’t know some people’s names in Vientiane because they’re referred to by their appearance. “Miss fatty this, Miss fatty that”. Apologies to those out there who might take offence. It’s culture talk.

Bad Education

No, this isn’t an example of student writing. This is an example of what one teacher wrote on the board for the students to copy. Do you believe me now? Can you imagine how hard it is for someone to learn here?

Government teachers get paid around $40 US a month. Many teachers in the countryside aren’t sure if they’ll get paid at all. In Luang Prabang, teachers make a better living working in private schools, but to make an even better living, some teachers take on classes at two different schools at the same time. It’s so common for a teacher to be absent that few people think this double-timing is strange.

Or how about this scenario for generating commerce? You teach at the university and teach so terribly that students are forced to spend money to study in the evening at a private school. That’s where you get your second job, sort of teaching the students who didn’t get anything from you where you were originally supposed to teach. If nobody complains, you’ve created your own cycle of supply and demand.

It’s not fair to talk like this. Not all teachers are like this. Let’s just I haven’t met the exceptional ones yet.

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.