Vientiane, Laos

France is in evidence everywhere in Lao.  Countryside schools were labeled "Ecole" and government buildings "Bureau."  All of Luang Prabang felt like a quiet arrondissement.  In Vientiane, the capital, we stayed on "Rue de François Nginn."  And almost every tourist spoke French.

But sitting right in the middle of Vientiane is the boldest evidence of the colonial history here: the Lao tribute to the Arc de Triomphe.  Well, maybe not a tribute.  Maybe, much like Nashville's "better-condition!" Parthenon, this should be called a one-upmanship.  With four arches, it's twice as traversable as the original.  A few feet taller, it's that much more impressive.  And, as if to go so far as to mock the former occupants, the devilish Lao even named their arch "Patuxai," or Pas Touché.  A brilliant slight!  I was awed by such audacity!  (I was then told my theory holds no water, and my pronunciation is very wrong.  But I was also told this by Quebecois, and -- ahem -- what do they know about pronunciation!?!  heh heh.)

 

A long slow dusty bus-ride (20 cents) from the city, the duration of which I resisted repeat offers of let's-three-to-a-seat from the old Lao woman and her pregnant daughter, and instead squatted in the aisle, we found the awesome Buddha Park.

A little Buddha Park history: forty or so years ago, some loony Lao was hiking along a remote mountain trace, accidentally tripped, and fell deep into a hole.  A lot like Alice, I guess.  But instead of the quick and bloody death you might expect (especially after watching Touching The Void), believe it or not, he actually fell into the padded lap of a meditating guru.  The two became quick buddies, and traveled Laos and Thailand spreading their unique word.  Part of this unique word was the need for more outsider Hindu-Buddhist art, created under the divine tutelage of the tripping faller, and artistically-inexperienced acolytes were suddenly creating hundreds of bizarre masterworks.  Like this:

Which represents Heaven.  Meanwhile, I'm sitting several floors below, in Hell.

And while you can't see much art in the photo below, you can see me with my friend Chloe's cousin Jennifer, who I found on the sidewalks of Vientiane.   (One of several random meetings in town.  After dinner, late, heading home before the midnight country-wide curfew, a lonely voice calls out "Andy?!!")

 But when it came down to it, my favorite side of Vientiane was the least exciting or foreign.  In fact, it was the American-owned chain of Laotian cafe's, Joma, which we fell in love with in Luang Prabang, and continued our embarrassing and indiscreet affair with here.  The coffee was fantastic, but it was the banana bread (omg!) and apple croissants (a terrible thought and a beautiful crispy pleasure -- no matter how pale they were, the best croissants I'd had in years) and ham and cheese sandwiches (I cursed myself with each bite, and smiled afterwards -- the next Larb Gai could wait) that kept us sneaking back time and again.

It was at the Northern Joma that I met Debra, an incredible 40-something woman who'd moved unexpectedly from Harrisburg, PA, to Luang Prabang, Laos.  "I had a vision, you see."  "A what?"  "A vision.  I'm a devout Christian.  And I know it sounds crazy, but I woke up one night having a vision, and had to move here."

It takes a few minutes to pry the full story out of her, and when she tells it, her eyes really do start to well up with tears.  "There was a little girl, and she was being held in a cage.  A small cage - it was only this big.  And it broke my heart to see her like this.  I didn't know who she was, but I knew she was in Laos.  I didn't even know what Laos was, where it was.  I didn't know anything, except that I had to help her.  I'm a feminist, and a Christian, and I knew it was my mission to help her.  So I sold everything I owned - I mean everything - and bought a ticket to Laos.  I didn't even have a passport before this.  My friends thought I was crazy.  They thought I'd be back immediately.  But that was four years ago."

"So you're a missionary?"

"No, it's not my place to preach.  I don't want to push my religion on these people.  I don't even go to church, here.  I have private prayer.  When you go to the churches, because you're white, it's suddenly about you.  It's not about Christianity, it's about you.  So I have quiet prayer, and help the girls here in my own ways.  I teach them.  I don't speak Lao to them - I make them speak English, to pull them out of their comfort zone, and help them to learn."  

I wanted to ask about her comfort zone -- "You're in Laos, why not learn Lao, crazy lady!" -- but quickly realized she was coming from a completely different place than I. She'd never left the US before. She moved to Lao because of a single vision. She'd left her comfort zone long ago. 

"So what happened when you moved here?"

"I did what I could, but my money eventually ran out.  After two years.  I didn't want to ask anyone for anything, because I knew Christ would take care of me.  I believed 100% in Christ.  I only had 1000 kip left, a single dollar, and didn't know where I could sleep.  So I slept on the street.  And then I used that money to check my email.  And you know what? I had an email.  Without asking, without anything, someone had just deposited money into my account.  So I knew this was right."

"And now?"

"I'm the manager at Joma.  It's great here.  We help the girls.  We train them, and give them education they wouldn't get elsewhere.  And we don't let the men get away with the shit they normally do.  Here at Joma, everyone's equal.  You know how the newest employee gets the worst jobs?  Well, here, that's cleaning the toilet.  One day, I told a new man to clean the toilet, but when I checked up on him, a woman was on her hands and knees.  I asked 'what are you doing?'  And she told me, she told me, 'it's not a man's place to clean a toilet.'  'Oh yes it is,' I told her!  And I marched over to him, handed him the brush, and watched while he cleaned it."

Such passion, such devotion.

But that was Luang Prabang. Here in Vientiane, Catherine and I sat at a pub discussing Debra, and the conversation segued on to monks.  An eavesdropping Lao leaned in, and interjected.  "Hey, I was a monk, once," he said.  "Twelve years!  Twelve years no sex, no drugs!  You know what I mean?  I MEAN NO BOOM BOOM!"