Yikes, it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here. In part, that’s because my brain was numbed by two weeks of administering English language proficiency assessments followed by countless hours of composing report card comments. I seem to be suffering from a cranky restlessness that I chalk up to an obsession with summer vacation overlapped with the frustration of a long pre-departure to-do list.
I’ve been typing for about an hour, but I keep deleting everything. I suppose all writers have days like this. My wry commentary just sounds mean. My witty observations aren’t funny. My reflections sound whiny and crabby. I’m heading to the Russian Circus tonight. Surely, I’ll find some inspiration there.
Just when you’ve worn a new pretty frock from Bali to the European Film Festival …
Just when you’ve enjoyed a splurge of a dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant with a splendid glass of red wine …
Just when you’ve closed the cover of a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel and sat reflecting on the horror and beauty of the prose …
Just when you’ve batted the ball around with your tennis coach at a rented court …
Just when you’ve spent a few hours holed up in your study with the air conditioner cranked, lost in Facebook …
Just when you’ve practiced your lines for the brilliant radio play “Under Milkwood” by Dylan Thomas, which you’re performing next week …
Just when you’ve shelled out a fortune for a haircut in a swanky salon …
Just when you’ve downloaded new music from iTunes …
… just when you trick yourself into thinking you live in a world of Western conveniences and culture, you step out into your yard to find the remains of a primitive-looking fish kebab. With tiny sharp teeth, fat gray scales and ant-filled eye sockets, the fish seemed to say, “Ha! Where do you think you are? New York City?”
Most likely, it was our night guard’s dinner, but as a Pisces, I can only interpret this fish as a sign.
With five weeks to go before summer vacation … before I can head home to cooler temperatures, cuddles with my nephews, dinners with my parents, views of the lake, Michigan four-berry pie, visits from friends and family, neighbors who speak English, Sunday newspapers, shady bike trails, crispy bacon, sprawling book stores, and everything else we miss during the school year … with just five weeks to go, that fish is telling me not to wish away my time but to embrace those things I love here and to acknowledge that I am one of the lucky ones.
For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.
I’m afraid I beg to differ, Mr. Luther.
As I’ve mentioned before, tuk-tuk drivers often congregate outside our front gate, where a full leafy tree provides cooling shade. They’re usually friendly, sometimes jumping up to open my gate when I approach on my bike, but more often than not, they’re just annoying. Sometimes they actually park directly in front of our gate, so we have to drive the motorbike around their tuk-tuks to get to our house. Most weekend mornings, they rise with the sun and crank their tinny pop songs. Lately they’ve been dumping trash under the tree, which would be the final straw if I knew enough Lao to have a confrontation.
In late March, the shade tree lost all its leaves and looked near death. Tony and I did a little happy dance but immediately felt guilty for rejoicing in nature’s destruction. The tuk-tuk drivers found other places to park, and we savored the peace of our foliage-free front gate. Unfortunately, we underestimated the power of tropical regeneration. Within about two weeks, the tree stood tall and proud and superfoliaceous. (I just found that fabulous word on synonym.com!)
So the drivers are back.
Mr. Kek, our favorite smiley mango-stealing driver – who likes to take detours by his own home to show passengers “Mr. Kek house! Mr. Kek dog! Mr. Kek baby!” – has even rigged up a hammock between his tuk-tuk and that temptress of a tree.
So, Mr. Luther, I will take that gold-and-silver tree, please.
If you’re looking for an enormous cricket, the no-evil monkey triplets, a nasty concrete crone with a chicken cage full of scared people, and a massive reclining Buddha, have I got a temple for you!
Wat Chom Phet, located at the southern edge of Vientiane, is not your run-of-the-mill Buddhist temple. Just a short bumpy ride off the busy Tha Deua Road, this place resonates a mystical, whimsical vibe.
I pedaled here with Tony and my friend, Catherine, early Sunday morning at the recommendation of a friend. Parking our bikes inside the temple gate, we were greeted by a strange collection of sculptures. A Lao man was lighting incense at an adjacent Buddha statue, so I asked him in Lao if he spoke English (an essential phrase to learn here!). He did, kind of.
We asked him to explain the unusual yard art.
Gigantic cricket with a man in traditional dress yanking on one huge cricket leg? Hmmm … he rambled about how the name of the village translated to “cricket” or something like that.
Skulls with red-painted fire and large aardvark-ish animals? Well, er, maybe those came from another temple.
Creepy looking witch with pendulous naked breasts guarding an overturned basket with three crouching captives inside? Ah, this one he could explain! The monks use this sculpture to teach that it’s easy to fall under the influence of evil people like this scary woman … or maybe not.
At least the hear-no-evil/see-no-evil/speak-no-evil monkeys were self-explanatory.
After chatting with us a bit more, the guy finished his prayers and drove off. We wandered around the temple grounds. The main attraction was the reclining Buddha, rumored to be 21 meters long and the biggest reclining Buddha in town. (I say “rumored” because nobody seems to know much about much at local temples.) I especially liked that Buddha rested his elbow on an elephant’s head; that was a creative touch.
Buddha’s bed was decorated with a menagerie of animals, including more elephants, a cat, chicken, naga, turtle, ox, dog, tiger and a couple I couldn’t identify – maybe a hyena or monkey?
There must have been some special event very early this morning. Ladies were cleaning up inside the big room, stacking trays used for eating while sitting on the floor.
Catherine and I sat down in the shade to chat, and we were soon joined by a novice monk and an old man.
The monk, named Som Chith, spoke some English and asked whether we had any questions about the temple. Turns out he didn’t have any answers, though. Fortunately, the old man, named Du Peng, had some institutional knowledge. He would relay long stories in Lao to our monk friend, who would then pause and think for a bit before giving us much abbreviated versions in English.
According to the guys, most of the temple was built on donated land in 1942, although the big gold stupa was older, maybe from the early 1900s. We asked about the crazy sculptures, and after a particularly long Lao explanation from Du Peng, the monk told us a traditional folktale about a character named Khatthanam. Catherine and I think the story goes like this: The evil witch captured people and ate them (hence the cage and the skulls on the BBQ). Khatthanam got word that some of his friends had been captured, so he came to their rescue. In an ending reminiscent of Hansel and Gretl, he tricked the witch by replacing the people with crickets. Gigantic crickets like the statue? We never got a clear answer to that. And, to be honest, we may have completely misunderstood the whole thing.
I tried to find details on (a) the temple, (b) the cricket story, and (c) the big Buddha, but as usual, I came up empty-handed. I find it very disconcerting how little of the local history and culture is documented in an accessible form. When I mentioned this to the first temple-goer, he shared my dismay. He said the government is deeply suspicious of the internet and wants to keep its secrets private. Well, they’re doing a good job.
Lady Gaga. Edward or Jacob? Celebrity reality shows. Farmville. The iPad. Know what else is hot?
My toiletries.
We have air-conditioning units in our dining room and bedrooms, and that’s it. Today’s temperature is 100°F, so anything not located in the dining room or bedrooms is getting broiled. Sometimes it’s nice to slather warm body butter on my feet before I go to bed, but when I start sweating straight out of the shower, I don’t really want my facial moisturizer to heat up my skin like Ben-Gay.
Just for kicks, I conducted a little experiment on our toiletries, and the results were surprising. I’m sure some brainiacs out there could explain this phenomenon, but I did not expect to see such a range of temperatures. I mean, all of these products live in the same sweltering room. Why didn’t they all have the same temperature?
Here’s the rundown (my thermometer only gives readings in Fahrenheit, so I apologize to those of you in the metric world): Our toothpaste got the hottest with a blazing temp of 97.4°F. Shaving cream stayed the coolest with a relatively chilly temp of 95.7°F.
Feeling very clever, I took my experiment one step further, using the scientific method:
(1) Ask a Question – Is there a relationship between the tap labeled “cold” and the actual temperature of the water?
(2) Construct a Hypothesis – Turning on the “cold” tap will release cold water out of the faucet.
(3) Test the Hypothesis by Doing an Experiment – I turned on the “cold” tap and used my thermometer to measure the temperature of the water. At first, the water temperature was 90.4°F, which I believe would universally be considered not cold. After letting the water run for a bit to get the hot water out of the pipes, I measured the temperature again: 92.7°F. It actually got hotter.
(4) Draw a Conclusion – It seems there are two potential conclusions. (a) My hypothesis was wrong, and there is no cold water in Laos. (b) My hypothesis was correct, and “cold” in Laos is a relative term defined as being around 92°F.
Sure, I could cross the street and buy some fresh fruit to make a frosty delicious shake. But then I would have to peel it and chop it and walk to the market next door to buy ice and get the blender out of the cupboard and later rinse out the blender and my glass … in my non-air-conditioned kitchen. Sweat is collecting on my brow at the thought.
Instead, I like to head into town to House of Fruit Shake, a little stall run by a lovely Lao woman named Nui, who will do all the work for 85 cents.
Here’s Nui making our fruit shakes.
Even though it’s 99F/38C here in Vientiane today, I feel quite comfy sitting on a sofa with a fan blowing in my face while I read a book and sip my lemon-and-mint shake. Today, Tony tagged along and sucked down a banana shake (he went off Diet Coke cold turkey three days ago; it hasn’t been pretty).
Usually, I hang out here and read for awhile, occasionally pausing to chat with Nui or order another fruit shake. Tony’s not one to linger, so we cut it short today. Can you tell how much I wanted to read that book? It’s a real page-turner!
I know I talk about fruit a lot. I just can’t overstate how much I love it.
For the last couple weeks, I have been eating mangoes from the tree in my yard. There are many varieties of mangoes here in Laos; ours are pale yellow and green on the outside and bright orange on the inside. Yum. The mangoes hang very high in the tree, but when we come home from school we find that our tiny housekeeper, Daeng, has somehow managed to pick them. She wraps the mangoes in newspaper and stashes them in cupboards until they’re perfectly ripe.
Our mangoes dangle close to the front gate, taunting the tuk-tuk drivers who park in the shade there. Once Tony caught our favorite tuk-tuk driver, Mr. Kek, sneaking in to steal one! Yesterday, I had crossed the street to buy an iced coffee from my beloved street vendor, Saeng, when Mr. Kek stopped me to ask if he could have a mango. Happily slurping on my coffee, I felt a little compassion was in order. “Bo-pen-yang,” I told him. No problem. I opened the gate and let him in. He immediately shimmied up the mango tree (in flip flops) and then precariously inched out onto a limb to grab a piece of fruit. Back on the ground, he showed me the mango had a bit of sap on it. “Baw dii,” he said. No good. I think he just wanted me to feel relieved that he took a defective mango, when in reality, it looked pretty darn perfect to me.
Another source of mango-ey deliciousness here in Vientiane can be found at Kung’s Cafe, a quirky little restaurant tucked in a back alley, where you can get a pancake made from sticky rice with chunks of ripe mango inside and drizzled with honey. But that’s a story for another day.
This morning, I walked across the street to the fruit vendors and bought a honkin’ big papaya, a bunch of sweet bananas, a kilo of mangosteens and a few imported apples (for Tony, who doesn’t like tropical fruit – freak!), all for about $5. It was so pretty, I had to take a picture.
Pii Mai (Lao New Year) is next week, and Vientiane is getting ready. Today our school held an assembly to mark the occasion.
I had noticed Hawaiian luau-style shirts for sale all over town lately, and I just figured they were hot with the tourists. Fortunately, my Lao colleagues set me straight: Flowers play a major role in celebrating Pii Mai (pronounced Pee My), so floral tops are de rigeur.
While running some errands on my bike, I stopped at a roadside stand and bought one for about $3.50. The guy looked me over and recommended an XL, but I grabbed a bright orange man’s style in a size large. Later, Tony bought one for himself, but his blue-and-white shirt was a size medium. It was even too small for me! Why, oh why, won’t men try on clothes before buying them? But I digress … At school today, he traded with my friend, Whetu, whose shirt was too big, so he and I both ended up in orange as though we’d planned it.
How cute are we?
The floral shirts definitely brightened up the school today. I especially loved the little boys who wore matching flowery shorts.
Our assembly included explanations and dramatizations of the Pii Mai traditions, music, a demonstration of water blessings and finally a big circle dance (although the clueless falang turned it into more of a dreamy mosh pit).
Afterwards, classes met on the lawn, where students blessed their teachers and asked for forgiveness. Isn’t that a fantastic tradition? Children dipped a small cup into a large silver bowl to scoop out some water and flower petals. They poured a little water on their teacher’s hands or neck and said, “Sok dee pii mai!” (Happy New Year!) and offered other good wishes. The teacher then used his or her wet hands to sprinkle some water back on the student. Because I’m not a grade-level teacher, I didn’t have a designated spot, but many of my students called me over to receive their blessing. It was really beautiful. I expected the children to get wild and silly with the water, but they were shockingly respectful.
A few shots from the assembly:
Out on the grass, we all participated in the water blessings.
Here are some details about the Pii Mai holiday lifted from Wikipedia. According to our Lao staff, this is pretty accurate:
Water is used for washing homes, Buddha images, monks, and soaking friends and passers-by. Students first respectfully pour water on their elders, then monks for blessings of long life and peace, and last of all they throw water each other. The water is perfumed with flowers or natural perfumes. The idea of watering came from the legend of King Kabinlaphom, whose seven daughters kept his severed head in a cave. The daughters would visit their father’s head every year and perform a ritual to bring happiness and good weather.
Sand is brought to the temple grounds and is made into stupas or mounds, then decorated before being given to the monks as a way of making merit. There are two ways to make the sand stupas. One way is to go to the beach, and the other way is to bring sand to the wat, or pagoda. Sand stupas are decorated with flags, flowers, white lines, and splashed with perfumed water. Sand stupas symbolize the mountain, Phoukao Kailat, where King Kabinlaphom’s head was kept by his seven daughters.
Another way to make merit at this time is to set animals free. The Lao believe that even animals need to be free. The most commonly freed animals are tortoises, fish, crabs, birds, eels, and other small animals.
Flowers are gathered to decorate Buddha images. In the afternoons people collect fresh flowers. Senior monks take the younger monks to a garden filled with flowers, where they pick flowers and bring back to the wat to wash. People who didn’t participate in the flower picking bring baskets to wash the flowers so the flowers can shine with the Buddha statues.
There is an annual beauty pageant in Luang Prabang to crown Miss Bpee Mai Lao (Miss Lao New Year). There are many beauty pageants in Laos, but Luang Prabang – the old capital – is widely known for its Nangsoukhane pageant. There are seven contestants, each one symbolizing one of King Kabinlaphom’s seven daughters.
During Lao New Year, there are many spectacles including traditional Lao music, mor-lam, and ram-wong (circle dancing). During the daytime almost everybody is at the temple worshipping, hoping to have a healthier and happier life in the new year. During the evening, people of all ages go to the wat for entertainment.
Earth Hour came to Vientiane for the first time on Saturday, March 27. Our little city was the 92nd one to join the movement, which aims to raise awareness about climate change by promoting one hour without electricity. It wasn’t as dramatic as the footage of Sydney or Shanghai, where global landmarks and big sections of the city suddenly went dark. Still, the event attracted an enthusiastic crowd to the Patuxai Monument, where a stage featured speeches and entertainment under electricity-sucking spotlights. After the countdown, the lights turned off in the vicinity around the monument, and even the stage lights dimmed a bit.
Apparently Laos had wanted to make participation compulsory, but Vientiane’s patchwork power grid precluded the flipping of a switch to cut off all the electricity. Another quirky note: The rest of the world celebrated Earth Hour at 8:30 p.m., but Vientiane decided to do it at 7:00.
Our internet’s been quite unreliable recently (maybe Laos figured out how to impose compulsory limits on THAT…), so I’m a bit late posting this. I finally got it on YouTube this week. Here’s the Vientiane countdown from four.
Getting government approval to operate a business in Laos apparently takes quite a bit of time and savvy finagling. My friend Catherine, an Aussie teacher at VIS, learned that firsthand when she rented space for an art gallery. Hoping to spotlight the work of local artists, she set up her living space upstairs and did some minor remodeling downstairs to create two display areas flooded with natural light.
When her official paperwork finally came through, Catherine shared the news with her landlord, Mr. Boulein, who immediately began planning a baci ceremony. Pronounced “bah-see,” the ceremony is held frequently in Lao communities to commemorate a special event, honor important people, cure sicknesses and celebrate just about anything.
Catherine had hoped to hold the baci on Tuesday, when a friend would be visiting from Australia, but Mr. Boulein explained that April 5 was an auspicious day and therefore the baci couldn’t wait.
As guests arrived at the i:cat gallery, Mr. Boulein’s mother (hereafter called Grandma) assessed our attire and pinned on colorful silk sashes. I enjoyed mingling and chatting with the well-wishers, an eclectic group of people from myriad countries and all walks of life. Catherine was surprised to find that some of her Lao friends actually knew each other and were conspiring to keep tabs on her.
Grandma pins a sash on me.
Soon Grandma ushered us in to the air-conditioned gallery room for the baci, where we sat on woven mats. She encouraged us to scoot close to the pah-khwan centerpiece – a large silver vase with a massive arrangement of marigolds and braided white strings. A collection of offerings surrounded the vase, including a roasted chicken, a plate of eggs, bags of potato chips, a basket of sticky rice, cans of soda, and thin beeswax candles.
The spiritual leader and the pah-khwan.
Each of us sitting next to the pah-khwan grabbed a white string tied to the centerpiece and clasped the other end between our prayerful hands. I felt fingertips on my shoulder and realized that everyone in the room was connected to each other – and thus the sacred pah-khwan – by touch. The spiritual leader then chanted long rapid monotone prayers, which were loosely translated by the lady on my left, Jackie, owner of another international school here in Vientiane. In a nutshell, he was praying for Catherine’s good luck, prosperity and overall happiness. At a couple junctures, he said something that elicited a few yelps from the crowd, which apparently were calls for the spirits to pay attention to his prayers.
Finally, we pulled the braided strings off the pah-khwan to offer individual blessings: Using the frayed end of the string, you first brush bad energy out through someone’s fingers on the top side of the hand. Then you turn the hand over and offer a number of blessings while brushing positive energy in over the palm and wrist. After all possible wishes have been offered, you tie the string around your partner’s wrist, giving the tight knot a final twist and rub for extra luck.
A highlight of the experience was when Grandma put the plate of chicken in Catherine’s hands, and the spiritual leader proceeded to do the string blessing with deep reverence and sincerity.
One young lady, Daeng (whose family owns my favorite breakfast place in Vientiane – Kung’s Café), was tying a string on my wrist when she started to offer up the omniscient prayer for me to have a kid. “Tell those spirits NO babies!” I said. She laughed and went along with it.
Daeng brought this beautiful basket of fruit.
With the Lao New Year holiday – Pii Mai – just around the corner, traditional water blessings followed the baci. We paraded outside, where Grandma had a silver bowl filled with water and flower petals. One by one, we crouched down for her to pour a bit over our hands.
I can see why Lao people treasure the baci ceremony. In her six years in Laos, Catherine has cultivated many friendships, and this brought us together with a common purpose. By the time we gathered outside for pizza and drinks, the ceremony had generated a palpable vibe of support and optimism for Catherine and her new enterprise.
Pretty, Sheila, Catherine and me. Pretty’s husband, Tommy, is a professional photographer, so I hope to get copies of his pics on here soon.
