Lao on my Mind

The bus curved around the mountain bend, rushing down into the valley, racing with the gurgling river and the setting sun.  It was the home stretch now.  Two hours overdue, crammed to the chassis with unforeseen passengers and cargo, the bus hacked and heaved and hyperventilated, coughing up a plume of purple smoke from its raspy belly.

Then it struck me.  Something that had pricked my brain for the past 48 hours. Something strange, an unconscious observation I had squirreled away about Laos.

I knew it was going to rain. Lots of rain.  On my first day in Laos, the sky's brow had furrowed, thick and black, and the rains poured down, as if the plug from the firmament's drain had been yanked.  A stroke of Laotian karma – a couple of boys bundled me and the girls into their pick-up truck on an empty stretch of highway -- and because of that, I witnessed the monsoon rains behind a window and not underneath an umbrella.

I knew the cuisine was going to be something I liked. It's the end of mango and the start of rambutan season.  Pho (or fue), is a staple here.  So are banh-cuon like crepes, fried noodles, and the pungent condiments (fish sauce, shrimp paste, etc.)  In fact, I confirmed my fondness for Laotian cuisine yesterday.  The girls and I took a cooking course.  Chicken laap, pork vermicelli, Luang Prabang salad and chili casserole appeared on the tables after 8 hours of dicing, mixing and woking.  Spicy, sour, tart, sweet – and of course, the Lao fondness for texture – crunchy, soft, doughy and chewy – it's not like Chinese or Thai or Vietnamese cuisine. I'll have to spread the recipes back in the States.

I knew it was poor... and that was it. 

I expected Laos to be poor, but the state of extreme and structural poverty -- it bordered on ludicrousness.  Wrecked by three centuries of war, Laos has no viable economy and political system.  It's one of the forgotten Communist states.  Unlike it's older brother Vietnam or China, there has been no real efforts for open markets, improvements to the labor force, or the establishment of a financial system.  Unlike North Korea or even Cuba, the government seems content to keep a low profile to remain a country on welfare.  It's GDP is comprised of 40% outside aid.

There are natural resources in coal and tin and hydro-power, to be sure, but with a population of 6 million, how can Laos compete with Malaysia (26 million), Thailand (65 million), or Vietnam (80 million)?  Add to that the cultural norm of Theravada Buddhism, where the karmic lives-after allows for the acceptance of sufferings now, and the poverty seems hopeless.

I had been in the country for more than two days, and I saw no skyscrapers.  Or a street with more than two lanes.  Or a condo.  Or a house made of materials other than bamboo.  I saw no signs of a middle class, no indications that technologies have penetrated as it has elsewhere (beyond the dinky internet labs at backpacker areas), and no centers of populations; towns and cities were non-existent – village communities of stilt homes and dirty naked children were the norm.

It was easy to be seduced by the sentimentalism of Laos.  The palm fronds created pinwheel silhouettes against the setting sun.  Mothers and daughters sat on their porches and watched the daylight (and our careening bus) pass.  Men, knee-deep in rich red mud, washed their peach-brown buffaloes in the streams before immersing themselves in the swirling waters.  Dogs chased chickens. Ducks quacked. The simpleness of the Lao afternoon was serene.

And yet is was hard to dismiss an embittered voice...

The traditional Lao diet of fish, meat and vegetables is under siege from processed sweets, and children (and teens) literally rot their teeth without proper dental hygiene knowledge (for all Western items are categorically 'good').

Paved roads have replaced dirt roads, and tragic motor vehicle accidents have replaced minor bicycle run-ins in a country with no real traffic laws.

Shared village property is now hotly contested real estate with the introduction of titles, property rights and of course, money.

Spirituality is on the down, and materialism on the up.  Village life on the down, and the tourism industry on the up. And so it goes.. as do the Laotians...and nothing is ever really that simple or that easy.

The bus pulled into a dusty dirt square.  Two men raced up to the door, competing for our tut-tut (a wagon hitched to a motorcycle) patronage.  The sky rumbled, and the sea of grass, pregnant with green, shivered in anticipation.  It was definitely going to rain – I suppose some things are certain in this country.

Blowingbubble's post:

My first impressions of Laos? The people are relaxed and the skies are craaazy. It seems like every time I look up, the clouds are doing something else to amaze/entertain me. Stripes, poufs, layers like shading, dark brooding clouds and others like a tornado touching down in the distance. One reminds me of the wind and clouds from the age-old story about the competition between the wind and the sun, blowing with all its might.

Suddenly, all there is is whiteness. The sky's been erased, leaving only the green outlines of the palm trees. We walk towards the white and I feel an isolated drop on my head. I check the pavement for confirmation. The splashes in the rice paddies along the road grow more frequent. We wave down a passing pickup. It passes, it slows, it hesitates, it goes. Yes? No? Yes? No? Finally, it stops. They've discussed, they've decided -- the teenagers in the pickup. j.fisher gestures and smiles, "Bus station?" We hop in the back with two of the guys. One motions to space in the backseat of the cab, but we shake our heads, no. "We're ok here. Thank you!"

It starts to rain some more. He asks again. We smile – we're ok. A few minutes later, he bangs on the roof of the cab and the truck slows to a stop. He doesn't really ask, he just points. We relent and scramble into the backseat, touched by their graciousness. The guy in the passenger seat doesn't even lean back in his seat, for fear of squishing us. We insist it's ok but he persists with his forward lean. The rain is now pelting down on us and they roll up the windows. We look back to see the other two leaning against the cab for a tiny modicum of protection. We're cognizant that they gave up their shelter as a gesture of kindness to the strangers by the roadside. When they drop us off, they insist on backing up as close to cover as they possibly can. We drop our heads, we smile, we grin – anything to try and convey our gratitude. We wave and shout our thanks as they drive off, "Khawp jai."