Family History

Putting up with peculiarities in parents may be one of the hardest things we have to do this side of heaven. 

I can’t believe I just said that; it’s so American teenager of me.  Still, as we travel and live in close proximity to one another on this trip, the friction between mother and daughters is a constant undertone.  Early in the morning yesterday, for example, my mother-in-law woke up before the rest of us; she’s brought American coins along as gifts and she was counting them, letting one clink noisily against the next, waking the rest of us and drawing her daughters’ ire.  At the giveaway in the village, she was too flippant for the daughters’ liking; perennially one daughter scolds her for losing track of valuables. 

This is the perfect time to travel with our children in many respects.  They’re still amazed enough by the geckos and butterflies and chickens of Laos to keep them occupied a great deal of the time, and they still like playing card games with us to fill much of the rest of time.  They are, in other words, pre-American teen stage, even though we can see it on the horizon with our daughter, age 11—the eye-rolling has begun.

The hyper-sensitive judgment about parents may have another side, though, a wiser sort of discretion and appreciation, of which I have also seen the blooms and fruits on this trip.

My wife has multiple families: brothers from her mom’s first marriage who are close family; her full sister who is closest family; sisters and brothers from her dad’s first marriage who are peripheral.  All of these siblings but two are in the US or France.  Yesterday, after a long trip to the country, we decided to swing by the house of one of the two siblings that remain here, a woman about fifty who lives mere blocks from where we’re staying.

We pulled up to what looked like a garage with the door shut, a metal door like those used to close a store in an American mall, but dark metallic green.  Someone stepped out to rap on this door, but as she did so, a woman hallooed us from an approaching scooter.  It was Sy’s sister, apparently just home from work.  We followed her around to the side of the house into a clay yard that seemed still a mess from construction.  Apparently the conversation went something like this:  “We just dropped by to see you, your sisters are here from America.”

“I work seven days a week; I don’t have time to entertain you.”

“Well, maybe you could take us to see your dad’s ashes.”

“Okay.”

After this interchange we got back in our van and followed the sister on her cycle to the wat, perhaps a mile distant, the sister speeding ahead to the point where I thought she was making her getaway.  Of course, we lost time because we stopped at a roadside stand to buy a lighter.  Eventually, we pulled into the compound of a wat, and there was her cycle and the sister, ready to lead us.

The “compound” of a wat is walled, and inside the compound are assorted buildings, including central shrine and more minor shrines and perhaps simple barracks for monks to sleep in, though we’re unclear on this point.  The sister led us through the neatly tended grounds of this wat, complete with perfectly trimmed shrubbery and tropical flora.  A Buddhist cemetery consists of upright sepulchers stationed near the outer walls of the compound.  A given sepulcher may hold the ashes of a number of people, not so individualized like American cemeteries.  It seems slightly more impersonal, though from what I’ve seen Lao people visit these sepulchers more religiously than Americans visit cemeteries.  Wedged into a corner, we found the sepulcher that contained my father-in-law’s ashes, the like of which was replicated all around the wall of the wat. 

The sun was setting and there seemed to be some urgency to complete the rite, so my mother-in-law produced the lighter and passed out incense punks to her daughters and grandchildren.  These were placed in the ground near the sepulcher and someone said a few words as if to Sy’s dad.  Sy’s been crying, Ly joins her, crying for a man they didn’t know but who nonetheless casts a long shadow into their lives.

By this time, Sy’s sister seems to have realized we will not be placing any burden on her, and perhaps the tears have broken the ice completely.  She smiles and I take a picture of the three daughters near the sepulcher.  As we move back toward our vehicle, they bring up the rear, filling the sister in on our children’s names and ages, her commenting on a few of their characteristics.  The wind is still, the air temperature as cool as it gets in Laos during this season; somewhere on the compound the monks are chanting an evening prayer that matches the beauty of the hour.

On the ride back, my daughter snuggles in next to me in the back seat.  She has questions.

“When did Grandpa die?” she begins. 

“About two years ago.”

“What did he die of?”

“Liver cancer.”

 A pause, then, “Why didn’t we see him?”  I’m surprised by this question, the answer to which I thought was self-evident, reminding me again of the gap between the concretized world of adulthood and the tenuous wonder-mystery of childhood.

“Because he was here, in Laos.”  And suddenly I know the next question.  But why was he here in Laos?  Why didn’t he live with Grandma?  Why did he get left behind?

So I rehearse the story for her, privately, cloistered as we are by this back seat, by speaking English, by the adults ahead of us lost in their thoughts; I give her as much detail as I think she can handle.

“Grandma’s first husband left her, we don’t know why, for another woman.  Sometimes men just do that, and it’s not right but it happened to grandma.  That left her with three boys, your uncles Ting, Teng, and Pong.  Grandma was poor then, so Uncle Ting and Uncle Teng went to live with their grandparents and later they went to France. 

“Then Grandma got married to Grandpa Douang.  He was in the army and sometimes men in the army do things like drink too much.  Men in the army often see things no one should see, people dying and things like that.  Uncle Som—remember Uncle Som?—he was in the army and he saw a lot of bad things and he smoked and drank too.  Some times when Grandpa Douang drank too much he was mean.  One time mom did something that made him mad, she was just two years old, and he was going to beat her with a stick, but Grandma stopped him and so then he beat her.  That’s when Grandma left and went back to live with Grandma Mouth.  She’s a strong woman, isn’t she?  Then when the new government came, Grandpa Douang had to go to a camp which is not like camping but it’s kind of outside with a lot of people.  Grandpa wrote a letter to Grandma saying that she had to come live with him there, but Grandma didn’t want to; that’s when she crossed the river and left Laos.”

She’s crying softly; I put my arm around her and she sobs into my chest.  I want to ask why she’s crying, which may be the stupidest question I could ask.  Initially, I thought she was asking questions because,seeing her mom cry, she felt sad about not seeing Grandpa Douang.  But her tears come now, no doubt, because of the story that is Grandma Keo’s life, a story she could never have guessed.  Yet I know it’s bigger than this, too, that she cries for the shattered world which now lies before her, a world that this story has begun to pull back the veil on.  I regret needing to do this, to pull the veil back, yet it was the perfect time and place to do it, here, through the story of someone close to us, in an intimate moment, with her close to me.  It’s all I can hope to do as a parent.

And yet there’s more to be done.  I’ve given some of the imperfect details as I’ve come to understand them, left out even darker realities, but it’s a story she must share with her mom.  Later, with the boys showering, I tell Sy about our conversation; she and Sommer lie on the ground and share a hard cry.  Then, when Grandma comes in, Sommer hugs the real person, standing firm and in the flesh. 

“I’m bitter because my mom didn’t deserve that,” Sy’s sister tells me in the kitchen, referring to her dad’s treatment of her mom, tears coming once again.  And here are the two sides of parental love, of parental awareness.  She who is most critical of her mother, who lives with her day-in and day-out, also wants to confront her father beyond the grave because of her deep love and respect for her mother.

There’s one more sister to see yet, a sister who’s had a particularly hard row to hoe, we’re told, who now lives in the country, somewhat impoverished.  This is the sister, we’re told, who lugged Sy around on her hips until they were red.  That will not be an easy visit, either.

But easy is not what we’re after.  What we’re after is just what we’ve gotten, confronting a story that makes my children part of who they are, citizens of a shattered world still prismatically beautiful for all of its brokenness because of the possibility implicit in life, in children themselves, because we can learn and pass on stories that can end in a hug between granddaughter and grandmother here in the fluorescent light on a tile floor of a tropical evening in Laos.

The Journey to a "Sabbai" Village: Ban Phon Sim

The drive from Savannakhet to Ban Phon Sim is not far in terms of distance. We get on a main road and head east out of town, past the modern new concert hall advertising modern artists including what looks to be the Lao Carlos Santana, past the skeleton structure of what promises to be a grand new building that no doubt means it will be a bank of some sort, and past a large compound with a billboard in English that identifies it as a “special economic zone.” I think I know what this means—a tax exempt zone to attract western manufacturing, that is, sweatshops—but the one large warehouse seems empty.

But when we turn off the main road, we’ve clearly shifted area codes. The road is smaller, the buildings more consistently rustic, the vegetation closer to the road, the traffic occasional. The sky today is a cumulonimbus world of blessing. We may, for all I know, be headed into the heart of paradise itself.

When we meet a small herd of cattle meandering up the road toward us, apparently aware that they must stay on the right side, I decide we may not be headed toward paradise as much as headed to some arcadian dreamland, an untouched idyll tucked away in the Lao countryside, where the rice farmers wear pointed straw hats and play the Asian lyre at noon while the water buffalo rests and the cows come home docilely in the fading light of evening.

But, as it should be, the way to this idyll is unpaved, and though it hasn’t outrun the tangle of powerlines—how authentic are these people? I bet they’ll still need satellite dishes!—the jagged bursts of banana trees above the roofline and well-kept bamboo fences along the warm road which bends off into the distance promises my pastoral vision just around the corner.

Here the countryside opens up as well, and across the flat floor of what must be a wide valley, a patchwork of rice paddies whose borders are two-foot mud ridges stretches to a ridge on the horizon, dotted by simple pagodas apparently used for midday shade and even, I’m told, a place to sleep at night during fieldwork season. We seem to be approaching my arcadia. This is the planting season, and the farmers seem to be progressively moving across the field plowing them with multi-use long-handled tractors that look like the front half of four-wheelers were cut off and ten foot handles were welded to the handlebars. They’re not water buffaloes, which are still around though we encounter them less than we did in Thailand, but the tractors are simple and odd enough to fit the vision.

I’m struck by the order of the fields. Two days ago we rode through the Thai countryside and found it much more chaotic. I’m wondering as to the difference. Part of it may be landscape—the Thai side had more water and more trees to work around. But I wonder as to the impact of character and an emphasis on neatness; I wonder at the impact of agricultural collectivization enforced by the communists, but by all accounts that was a train wreck that lasted a mere year or two.

By the time the road dwindles to a path and we cross a simple one-lane wooden bridge, I’m a bit nervous. Finally, our path is stopped by a family of ducks, but a friendly voice hails us from behind. This is my mother-in-law’s first cousin, who shares her smiling eyes. Soon another first cousin shows up who shares so many characteristics of Grandma Mouth, I think she must be a reincarnation of her. These are the only three first-cousins left from Grandma Mouth’s family of 5 siblings for one reason and another. It’s an occasion for tears. We’ve arrived.

Our schedule for the afternoon is simple: my mother-in-law has brought a feast of foods from the city that must be prepared or spoil. The women set to it underneath the overhang adjacent to the house while the men drink to our health inside a tiled-floor house with doors thrown open, my mother-in-law’s cousin insisting how “sabbai”—nice, peaceful, restful—the countryside is and why would we want to live anywhere else? Meanwhile, our kids find infinite entertainment in driving off the chickens that approach the women slicing paper thin the fish that mae Keo has brought. A dog comes in and lounges on the floor. We snack on rambutan—that ubiquitous hairy fruit which we’ve eaten at every turn on our trip—and fresh pineapple pulled from the backyard. And drink Beerlao.

The meal uses everything. The fish is cured in lime and herbs and pepper and eaten with sticky rice; the leftover fish heads and skeleton are made into a fish head soup that mae Keo also makes back home with the remains of walleyes after I’ve filleted him, a dish my wife has said is “very rustic”; here we are at the source of it.

After dinner is the giveaway. Six women sit in a semi-circle as maeKeo, with some flourishes of offhanded nonchalance, her daughters insist to me later, divvies up two suitcases worth of clothes she’s brought for them. This is the village daughter returned from the outside world, or to borrow from Joseph Campell, the heroine with her western haircut who has “ventured forth from the world of a common day into a region of…fabulous forces…” now returned “with the power to bestow boons on her fellow[villagers].”

***

I’d like to think I can know the village through the children.

Up the lane from the cousin’s house, neighborhood children play in a mud puddle, the youngest falling down in it.

In the evening, as we enjoy fresh coconut juice cut from an uncle’s tree, Aidan plays tag with a three-year old to immense giggles.

At a distance, in the space beneath her raised house,a mother swings her baby in a handmade wicker cradle.

In the fading light, a teenager completes her chores of bringing the cattle in for the night; another walks home with her littlest sister.

But there are other stories.

At the cousin’s house, a darling little girl, Momei, attaches to Sommer. The pictures next to the TV that look like they were taken at the Lao version of Sears are of the grandparents, the mom, and the daughter, but not the father. The father was Thai, we’re told, and before he abandoned the mother, he also robbed the house. Now, the mother is working somewhere, presumably Savannakhet; the grandparents have taken care of Momei since she was three days old.

Another of the elders, a second cousin of maeKeo, also takes care of a grandchild about three years old who is three-quarters white. How does one get a three-quarters white child in an almost completely ethnic village? Simple, the mother wasluksaut, mixed blood, and the father wasfalang, all white.

There’s a story here that I will never know, yet it’s a story that I already know. Young people from a “sabbai” village encounter the opportunities and appetites of the voracious modern world and it consumes them, they sell themselves to it, and they get things they didn’t bargain for, which then fall back on the “sabbai” village.

And yet, of course, the “sabbai” village is not that “sabbai.” There are satellite dishes on many houses connecting to everywhere. Here, too, we’ve been told, we’re more susceptible to things like malaria and even Japanese encephalitis. In the evening, two cousins argue drunkenly about whose coconuts are sweeter, Keo chastises them, and I come between them for a picture. Another complains somewhat bitterly that we aren’t staying at his house, but we doubt his motivations are pure: we mean money to him. By the time we leave, it seems that some of the politics of family and village are encroaching upon us.

***

It turns out Momei is Sommer’s third cousin, closer than some of our relation at church with the same last name. At the end of the day, it’s a wonder to find family half a world away, to find the tangle of humanity much the same as it exists anywhere on earth, but always the children, misbegotten or not, carrying on the “sabbai” beauty and difficulty that is life.

Matriarch

The Lao matriarch, I'm convinced, is magic.  No, "magic" is too easy. I could try to follow Zora Neale Hurston and declare her "the water buffalo of the world," but as a white male, I have no business messing around with these titles.  So let me just tell you what she does.

The matriarch of this place is the matriarch of two houses—two large houses. In Laos, the family spills on and on, a great fountain with the great grandmother in the middle and grandparents and parents and nieces and nephews and cousins and in-laws bubbling outwards in a tremendous circle.

The great grandmother here is 100 years old. She lounges during the day on a raised platform; for the evening meal she’s sometimes transferred to a wheel chair and rolled outside near the stone tables to eat with the family. Respect for her is palpable, it’s the undercurrent of Lao morality and the power at the center of the house.

Her daughter, maetaoSang Meksavanh, is the energy behind the household. In between meals, we get the structure of her day, the bass line or drum beat of Lao culture. Up at four, she makes sticky rice for the entire family and for the monks at the wat. After delivering the monks’ rice, she returns to cook breakfast, khaobiak, rice noodle soup with pork, blood sausage, and herbs, on her charcoal stove.

Her charcoal stove.

Her cooking set up, typical of Lao cooks everywhere, is adjacent to the house and under an awning. There’s the charcoal stove, which is a sort of stone pot or tripod for the charcoal fire upon which the pot sits, all set within a simple if sturdy framework that functions as a kind of hood or windbreak. For clean up, there’s a drainage gutter that runs behind the house and a great stone basin filled with water. This is the kitchen sink. Squatting as seemingly only Asians can do—this also explains the bathrooms—she will wash all the family’s dishes here and then prepare for the next meal.

Cooking with the pot also explains the soup-based element of Lao cuisine. Pho and khaobiak can cook all day, the longer the soup bone flavors can disseminate into the broth the better, but also keng pit, an orange broth with young egg plants, green beans, squash, basil, assorted herbs, and pork, and oum khilex, a deep green broth with pork and ant eggs, as well as various curry dishes.

Other dishes are more intensive: in dom mach hung (spicy papaya salad, the signature Lao dish) the papaya must be shredded, usually with a hand held cleaver, chopping into the green fruit and then slicing off the shreds—there food processor in Lao cooking is the mae, the mother, or her sous chefs, her daughters. Laab, too, a ground pork dish with tremendous herbs and spices, is a bit more labor intensive. Then there’s grilled meats, deep fried meats—only fish, I guess—cured meats, steamed meats wrapped in bamboo with rice and herbs, and on and on.

But perhaps I’m also not explaining the extent of the dishes here, as in dirty dishes. These are the people that eat mae Sang’s cooking: the great grandmother, her husband (who’s our connection here), two daughters, a daughter-in-law and that daughter-in-law’s sister, a son-in-law, up to five grandchildren, and at least two “cousins,” plus our party of seven, plus herself. And at any given meal there may be two-to-five new people. Let’s be conservative and say twenty people. Let’s also say that this is primarily the number at dinner, as breakfast is more unpredictable and other arrangements often happen at lunch.

Still, I’m tempted to say that magic happens in getting all those people fed, but I don’t want to diminish the work that it takes. She worksdiligently; she works religiously. But she also works evenly, she also works artfully. What she does she does with grace, without need for acclaim except the brief narrative of her day that we’re told of once so as not to lose sight of that undercurrent of respect that keeps the household afloat. Through the beauty and excellence of each dish—which have themselves, no doubt, grown and diminished over the years, have peaked and flattened out and especially deepened with her knowledge of her craft—her more significant masterpiece grows up around her, as children grow and draw in others to the family unit, as the ripples of her influence extend further and further outward from the center of her calm and artistry.

Dieth is my case in point. Dieth is a sixteen-year-old “cousin,” who, we’re told, is here studying in Savannakhet and staying with the family, though since school’s out for the year, he’s always around. Dieth has an easy smile and short, tousled hair that looks trendy but is apparently just part of his effortless good looks, and he’s quick to serve, perhaps due to his status in the family as boarder. Dieth is often at the wheel of the SUV that carts us around Savannakhet, perhaps because he’s sixteen and likes to drive (even though the legal age is 18), cranking Lao pop music via the CD player, but he also carries a good portion of the chores around the house. Unloading the charcoal truck when it drops off a score of bags, dumping and burning the trash, Dieth is always on the move.

Yesterday at noon, Dieth got his payment, or more to the point perhaps, was beneficiary of being within mae Sang’s circle of influence. A small batch of dom mach tua, a sort of mashed green beans with spice, seemed especially designed for Dieth. He ate it eagerly, voraciously, bending his head to his task intently if joyously. I enjoy dom mach tua, so I decided to elbow my way in to Dieth’s action, but first, the ever important question: Is it spicy? Pit ba? I asked and, predictably, he responded with “Ba pit.”

So far, I’ve had little trouble with spice, primarily because mae Sang is controlling it, flavoring falang (white people) dishes with less pepper than those for her own family. In moving in on Dieth’s action, I was crossing the line. I found that out soon enough.

Though excellent, the dish was very spicy for my palate. Pit li! I exclaimed. Dieth just smiled, his special blessing from mae Sang still intact.

The heir apparent to the title of matriarch is mae Sang’s oldest and married daughter Noi, who runs the house that we stay in. But Noi is a career woman of sorts, keeping a clothing shop in one of the markets that amounts to a thirty square foot cubicle in a low-roofed building of like cubicles, cramped together and close. Still, it’s a matter of some pride to her, as she invited us to see it early on in our stay and we complied. She also declares that she can set her own hours; so far, however, those hours seem very regular.

But this posture to the world raises a question. When mae Sang takes her mother’s position as respected elder, no longer directing the house through her cooking, will Noi step in and fill mae Sang’s role? And if Noi doesn’t choose to fill that role, what will that mean for the circle of influence around these households? And if this is a collective question for Lao households in Savannakhet, what will that mean for the culture?

As in many cultures, as gender roles get passed on or morph from generation to generation, these questions surround the two Meksavanh households of Savannakhet.

Culture and Posture

There's a scene in the film Namesake that I kept picturing when thinking about our trip to Laos.  In the film, Indian parents return to India with their teenage children; day one and the bratty American teens are already bored and hot, whining about returning to the familiarity of pop America.  Our kids are not teens, though one is a tween, but they can be bratty about being bored.  To temper their pre-trip excitement, I was tempted to tell them how hot it would be, how bored they would be, how there would be no American food anywhere in sight, but that, yes, we expected them to behave and enjoy themselves, darn it.

Alas, my better judgment prevailed, I said nothing, and so far so good.  Aidan is fascinated with the fauna of the place, especially the tiny geckos that linger on ceiling corners, occasionally chirp, and do very well feeding on moths in the evening, at least the external ones; Micah journals in the early morning hours and reads a bit; Sommer makes us instant coffee in the mornings and sits contentedly as auntie daily braids her hair in a seemingly infinite number of patterns.  However, we've had some help.  For example, the fact that "Tom and Jerry" was in Thai mattered not at all in the boys' fascination with it for the first two days of our trip. Now, in Laos we have fewer TV options; Tom and Jerry are gone.  Fortunately, we've broken out the Scrabble Slam deck and they're new enough to the spelling game--and our 5th grade daughter is happy enough to win consistently--that they're fascinated with it.

But we're staying in a private residence, a distant relative--or not, I can't quite tell--of Sy's, and that means trying to obey house rules, trying to quick-a-minute teach young American children the faux pas of Lao culture.  (Not that we haven't been trying to teach them along the way, but in an American context the lessons means little and our teaching was admittedly haphazard.)

Here, they stumble and stumble, we scold and scold, and they get more and more bewildered by the seeming tedium of cultural rules.

Here's a rundown:

1)  True to many Asian cultures, houses are not places for shoes; take your shoes off at the door.

2) Feet in general are dirty and disrespectful; therefore, keep feet down from chairs; sprawl onto your sleeping mat on the ground head first and feet last; keep feet down from the low table when eating on the floor; don't walk over anyone or any foodstuff--walk around thtem.

3) Respect the elderly by lowering yourself in deference to them when walking near them; this means, if you're walking and their sitting, you get down to their level. 

4) Don't ever touch the head of a person whose older than you; address elders with their appropriate title, of which their are myriad, even though generic terms of grandpa, grandma, uncle and aunt are generall though to be close enough.

It seems simple enough, yet its a dizzying list of things to remember for American children:  wrestling on the sleeping mats, the boys' feet end up directly on the pillows; Aidan goes and sits on a scale intended for vegetables; Sommer walks over a bag of bananas; she also walks directly past the centenarian grandmother standing straight up; all their feet are forever up on couches; Micah picks up an abandoned flip flop and sets it (gulp) directly on a table. 

Admittedly, we're the ones who react the strongest to these slights, trying to be aware of ourselves as guests; our hosts are gracious and unperturbed.  Also, this whole culture-crossing experience is why we're here, we must remind ourselves, especially when it becomes work to ride herd.

Of course, I am not immune to these rules myself, though my transgressions seem to come from an even larger culture--and perhaps personal--issue: body control and spacial awareness.  First, the personal side: I seem genetically predisposed to a) being somewhat of a klutz; b) I have lower spatial awareness than most, running through things--and sometimes people--rather than over them.  However, my wife also attributes some of my disregard for others' space to my Americanness: I simply am thinking of my own self and space more than others', she would argue.

Thus, in the Shanghai airport, I clip someone's feet in the waiting area; thus in a Lao market I kick a bucket (not the bucket, thankfully) in one of the narrow alleys and consequentially hear Lao exclamations in the wake behind me; thus, in a trek to downtown Savannakhet to find wi-fi with my sister-in-law, we walk single file because I outpace her and she laughs as I catch my sandals on the uneven cement panels covering the streetside gutters.  I'm an American, dang it, and I've got places to go, and in a place of many people where space is at a premium, that existential orientation becomes manifest in embarrassing moments.

My wife is good at pointing these things out, and by "good" I mean that she sees my habits for what they probably are and communicates that to me directly.  It really gives one pause.  To think that the way one conducts one's body in almost every move is culturally--and perhaps also genetically--inscribed is sobering.  Not only am I learning not to put my feet up on a couch or play with flip flops at the table.  As an adult I don't find that difficult, thank heavens.  Rather, at every moment I must try to think about myself in relation to others, to reign myself in a bit as I meet or approach people, consider personal space and posture in relation to those nearby, considering especially their ages and genders.  It adds a whole new meaning to "love your neighbor as yourself" to think about ennacting that posturally in relation to others on the sidewalk, at table, in the marketplace.  It's a posture--a posture of a certain kind of love--I certainly want to learn.

Breaking Food Rules

I’ve officially broken all the food rules that our special travel doctor insisted upon following in coming to Laos. There weren’t many: no fresh vegetables; no uncooked seafood; no tap water. Okay, in my bravado I’ve overstated the case. The only way I’ve really broken the tap water rule is through using it to brush my teeth. And by using ice of which we knew not the source, even though we were pretty sure it was legitimate. Okay, rule three is intact.


Still, rules one and two have been broached. Multiple times.

For the record, I sat across from our travel doctor, a native of India, and asked her to look me in the eye and say that, when traveling to her home country, she never ate fresh vegetables or uncooked seafood. And, in her defense, she looked me in the face and lied, saying that, yes, indeed, she always made sure everything was cooked.

My wife the prevaricator also smiled and nodded vigorously, insisting that we would follow these rules as good health-conscious citizens of the first world. I, on the other hand, wise old hand that I am, knew that we would have tremendous difficulty with rule number one for one simple reason: the Lao diet is predicated on fresh vegetables.

We broke both rules already in Thailand. We ate fresh cabbage that is a prerequisite with a dish that we had there. We also had fresh oysters in a spicy sauce. However, we assuaged our guilt by insisting that this country was safe, that in Laos it would be different—we would be different, a sentiment reinforced by our hotel proprietor who insisted that there was a significant difference between the cleanliness of vegetables in Thailand as compared to Laos, over there on the other side of the river, a mile away. Sy and I looked at each other as if to renew our vow: once crossing the border we would renew our dietary virginity and stick to abstinence.

But almost immediately after crossing, we found ourselves in so many wonderfully compromising situations. At the evening market, my mother-in-law and her friend stopped almost immediately to buy something small and seed-like. After buying some flip flops and pausing on the edge of the covered portion of the market, these seeds which were really bugs emerged. They’re buttery, we were told, and in the flow of the moment we tried them without hardly thinking: buttery indeed they were, though the texture was the difficult thing to get past, chitinous and leggy. “They taste like popcorn,” said my son, ever the simile-master. Indeed they did. But where did they fall among the food rules? Were they seafood? Certainly not. Were they cooked? At the edge of carnival of humanity that was the dalat lang—evening market—one didn’t stop to ask.

And then our hosts themselves on our first night in Laos served us fresh vegetables. How fresh? I-watched-her-climb-a-tree-and-pick-some-kind-of-leaf-and-then-serve-it-to-me-a-minute-later-on-a-plate fresh. With fresh hoi ta lee: oysters—the same dish we ate in Thailand but almost infinitely better due to the fact that the oysters were more fresh, the sauce was spicier and purer, the entire dish was topped with dried garlic, and we had this fresh-off-the-tree herb that was a soft, sweet chaser. Oh, and we also drank Beerlao—the number one beer in the world, my host informed me, and I didn’t disagree—with it. There we were, simultaneously smashing rules one and two. I should have asked for tap water to complete the clean sweep.

There’s that braggadocio again; no doubt the next post will come from the hospital infirmary. Yes, indeed, I did feel a little bit like Anthony Bourdain on the episode when he insisted what he was about to eat would land him in the hospital, but he ate it anyway. Still, when in Rome…

***

Sure enough, last night I woke up with something that felt like a cross between constipation and diarrhea. I cannot be sure it wasn’t simply too much Beerlao, bottles kept getting opened and my glass filled when I wasn’t looking. Still, when one has invested significant cash in various pills to head off diarrhea before it starts, an early morning stomach ache gives one pause: Am I beginning the final war with third world diseases?

And is it worth it? In addition to the fresh, soft tree leaves last night, we also had fresh pineapple, the characteristic acidity replaced almost entirely by a pure sweetness; fresh short bananas, I don’t know their American name but when you buy them at Walmart they taste more pasty and strongly clovish than these, which were again sweet and perfectly textured; and fresh bamboo, which is again simply purer, the texture crisp-tender yet melt-in-your-mouth sweet.

But I’m still waiting for the horror to materialize. I think my jep tong—stomach ache—was the result of the beer and not of the food, for which I’m grateful. So onwards and upwards. There’s a crop of coconuts staring at us from a palm tree on location; this and other delicacies—and adventures—await.

The Religious Impulse: That Pha Nom

All of life is religious, we say. Even if we claim to be irreligious, looking around our lives will result in us finding the iconography of the religious: neatly clipped lawns and Beemers in driveways are signs of the religious as well as churches with stained glass and crosses. I say this; I believe this; yet I still wasn’t prepared for the degree to which Buddhism is present in the Thai world. Orange-robed monks appear in the street every morning; they’re pictured on banners and billboards along the highway and in the city streets; our tuk-tuk driver had images of monks like trading cards pasted in the cab just above his head. In our trip across country yesterday, we saw one magnificent Buddhist university under construction and at passed at least two or three others, including one where boys with shaved heads sat taking instruction in an open-aired classroom. Yesterday, we stopped at a magnificent wat (temple) sponsored entirely by a famous Thai movie star and were served free pork noodle soup; across the road from our hotel in Mukdahan is a wat; there’s another up the street; we’re headed to see another more famous one 50 kilometers away.

As opposed to the US, where at least protestant ministers blend into society in a way that makes them almost indistinguishable from the average citizen, Buddhist monks are meant to be noticed, are subjects of conspicuous simplicity, if you will. I’m unclear as what all these monks do, though I know they direct religious rituals from birth to marriage to death. I also know they’re the object of charity. In Theravada Buddhism, the path to nirvana is not an easy one; one doesn’t simply take on another’s merit and “get in” in one life-cycle. No, in Theravada Buddhism, one is in it for the long haul, but monks are clearly out in front and the rest of us can better ourselves by blessing them.

I’m not sure whether I’m letting my understanding of the desert fathers impact me here, but thinking of these figures, of the posters and stickers, I’m struck with the idea of “athlete of God.” Clearly, these monks are meant to be thought of as out ahead of us on the path, capable of a type of living, a type of religion that means discipline and rigor, a lifestyle of which we as commoners are simply not capable. With this idea in mind, the iconography especially makes sense.

(To be fair, in Christianity, too, I’ve no doubt that some people “run with perseverance the race marked out” for them better than others. Yet there’s always this bizarre thing called grace, too, where someone can step out of the crowd right near the finish line and step across. Even as I look at this formulation, though, it seems cheap; I’m not sure the metaphor holds absolutely, here.)

And merit. Seeing them brings the idea of merit up close and personal, too. When someone is an athlete of transcendent proportions, mere mortals buy their shoes, get their autographs, saves their ticket stubs to any game where the player is in attendance. Why buy Air Jordans except to particate in the merit that somehow gets engrained into the shoe?

Again I know I’m cheapening something here, yet the view of monks as meritorious is in the atmosphere. Downstairs in our hotel is a pot with offerings of money tied to sticks; above the desk is a picture of the proprietors with an aged monk whose vision is clearly for the next life. Participation in merit.

It’s not very democratic, and that’s what makes me not distrust it. There’s something intensely undemocratic about life in Thailand, from the radically distinct class separation to this blatant acknowledgment of spiritual superiority evident in monastic life, and both of these admonitions seem more truthful than American pretensions equality that ignore real differences in people.

However, I’m also struck by the glaring dualisms in Buddhism. I’m unclear as to the role of the monks in daily life except as it relates to an otherworldly superstition. Passing these very clearly marked institutions of learning on our trip, clearly Thai Buddhism does keep a foot in this world as it applies to education, and there was the free food at the wat, too, though those who partook in that food were people of the means to travel outside of Bangkok by bus. However, I’m not convinced that an air of detachment is present in the open dumping that happens along the highway, the broken bottles that are strewn along the concrete steps down to the Mekong below our hotel, the legendary sexual abuse that happens in the underbelly of Bangkok.

***

After two days here, of course, I know I’m making a snap judgment; I know that tremendous poverty is ripe for tremendous evil; I know that I have seen little of Buddhism but the surface, but first impressions do mean something.

Yesterday afternoon, we traveled to a famous or powerful wat, one that my mother-in-law told us we were “lucky” to have visited, since most people in Thailand never get to visit it. In terms of its beauty, it was significant if not overpowering. However, in terms of its practice, it was more overtly religious than any temple or shrine I have ever visited.

Around the outside of the shrine, people had set up all sort of shops to sell religious paraphernalia: bronzed figures of monks to keep in your pocket; lotus flowers; birds in cages, turtles in tubs and eels in bags that could be released for good luck. This outside the outer walls of the shrine; the inner courtyard of the shrine was a raised tile floor on which you had to remove your shoes; there my mother-in-law and her friend bowed before leaving the flowers of the lotus flower on the golden shrine. In another building of the compound, and lasting for the duration of our visit, monks chanted while others, many of them school children, watched and listened.

I had a hard time suspending disbelief . Admittedly, all I thought about was the whole “den of robbers” episode in the Bible. It was just such a focused, overt show of religion that, again admittedly from my individualistic religion-of-the-heart mentality, I felt besieged by the superstition of it.

Then again, there was admittedly a certain power in some of the rituals. As we pulled up, a teenage girl and her boyfriend were reading a half-page tract; then the girl lifted a small red cage that they had bought, opened one end of it, and released two small birds into the air, who eagerly flew their cage and escaped into the freedom of air. The wonder of it all was unmistakable, a powerful if contrived vision of freedom performed by young lovers who the next moment no doubt turned to their phones to text, its own form of cage and freedom.

This image, if anything, helps me guide my children through an experience that felt, for all the world, like what I’d always been taught it was: a competing, idolatrous religion. This was the impulse that was uppermost in my mind throughout our trip, but in the vision of teens there it was—the seeking after something more, something higher, something better that is the religious impulse in us all.

Racial Heritage and Place, Mukdahan, Thailand

My daughter is a thin slip of a girl, more angular and long than her more compact if still thin mother. As we hang around the shops and open air cafes of Mukdahan, Thailand, and look out across the Mekong to Laos, her mother’s birthplace, a part of my daughter’s character seems to emerge, a latentness about her figure that seems perfectly at home in flip flops, lounging in doorways, fanning herself under the awnings on the banks of the Mekong.

On its t-shirts, Mukdahan advertises itself as a laid back place, and from what we’ve seen so far, that fits the bill about right. Walking through the streets of Mukdahan, certainly only a small fraction of the people are what we might call insured. As is seemingly true throughout much of the country, everyone owns a shop, everyone sells food on the street. It’s still unclear who buys all this food besides us, but apparently the people don’t need much and are satisfied with little. Sitting down to a good bowl of beef noodle soup with blood sausage and fresh greens, or peeling a fresh fruit again under one of the awnings that give deep shade even at midday is about enough to make life good.

Oh, there’s money being made as is obvious from the busyness of the business district proper. There’s Toyotas and Motorolas and high fashion aplenty in the shops downtown. Then, too, Mukdahan is a local hub of sorts, no doubt drawing shoppers from a goodly outlying region, and MaKeo was telling us that there’s a long tradition of the Lao from Savannakhet coming across the border to buy their goods in Mukdahan, a tradition that stretches well back beyond communism. “Some people, they just get up in the morning and fish and whatever they catch they go and sell and use the money and come here for shopping,” she tells us. “Aunt Noi’s family, that’s what they do.” If Mukdahan is laid back, then, I expect Savannakhet to be almost totally in neutral.

It’s a kind of false genetic game to suppose that my daughter has a predilection to being laid back due to her racial heritage. In fact, her mom is keyed up, hyper, at times—and I think she’d agree—a control freak. Part of this may be learned: one of my wife’s coping mechanisms for being a minority has been a “pull-myself-up-by-my-bootstraps” kind of determination, an “I’ll show you” kind of mentality.

In fact, my daughter could equally be said to get a certain laidbackness from my grandfather, a patient, relaxed, harmonica-playing man. Then, too, she’s completely an American girl—into fashion, dance, piano-playing, and good grades, a type-A first child.

But my impulse remains. Part of her seems right at home here in Laos, seems to fit—even though she’s falang because of my part in her—because of a certain flip-flop grace and long-haired beauty she has, because of the wider cheekbones she gets from her mother, because of the straight-line smile and dark brown eyes, because of her simple elegance in the laid back streets of a relaxed town on the banks of a large river, because of the way that her willowy body belongs to this place. This place.

There's Nothing Like the Smell of Southeast Asia in the Morning

There's nothing like the smells of southeast Asia.  First and foremost is the air, heavy with humidity and so sweet it's always bordering on past ripe moving into rotten.  It's good, and even when it's not good it's strong, which is its own strength. 

Our internal clocks had us all awake by 5:30 this morning, so my wife and set out on the town.  Out the narrow gate of the hotel wedged, we were confronted by one of the icons of this world: a unused lot or corner of a lot littered with plastic bags, cups and other refuse.  Down a one lane alley is another: bright pink flowers blooming from plastic pots, flourishing in the already humid air.  Street vendors are readying their foods, the flourescent pink of roast pork featured in a glass compartment.  We turn left at the main road, startled at the already maniacal traffic.  The people out at this hour are all uniformed: women in what look CNA uniforms--though I know they're not--in variations of gray and blue; a monk in signature orange robe; men in security guard uniforms complete with caps.  This is another signature; every place that is any place has a night guard, many have day guards.

We cross a canal whose water is black and tepid; a pink baby shoe lays forlorn on the shore, more plastic litters the water.  Here the sweet smell has gone rotten to the point of morbidity. 

We've come to the shopping center, we predictable westerners, looking for coffee.  Nothing besides a McDonalds and a convenience store, both 24-hour, are open at this hour.  We enter the convenience store and are immediately confronted by some of my children's favorite fruit--lychee and rambutan, the latter of which we buy a handful of for about twenty cents. 

On the way back, the food stands are ready, and we get four bowls of pho at $1 a bowl.  I'm sweating through my hat already, and the sun is still behind a scrim of clouds.

We go back for two more bowls of pho, plus two iced coffees, at fifty cents each. 

In many ways, my expectations for this trip are already fulfilled: the sensory overload of  heat, and street food. 

FAQs

Tomorrow morning by this time, we will have woken up three children, ages 11, 8, and 6, and we will have traveled to the Sioux Falls airport to board a flight for Chicago where we will board a connecting flight to Shanghai, China, and then to Bangkok, Thailand.  We will fly for a total of just short of 20 hours, leaving in the morning of one day and landing in the evening of the next. 

The flying should be the easy part.  Barring weather and other flight delays, once we check our luggage and board that plane, the chain of events that will take us to Bangkok is in someone else's hands.  When we touch down in Bangkok is when the real work of travel begins. 

"Got your trip all planned?" someone asked me in the weeks leading up to tomorrow.  Apparently, the blank look I gave in return said enough.  "How does one go about planning a trip like this anyway?" she appended. 

Yes, how does one? 

Through the internet.  Sort of.  While we had initially planned to take a train from Bangkok to the Thai border, through a facebook contact in Bangkok we reserved a car--and, we think, a driver--instead.  After spending one night in a hotel in Bangkok, a car will pick us up from the hotel and take us to Mukdahan, Thailand, on the Mekong River.  This "car" was competitive in price and, most of all, was preferred by my mother-in-law who, for some reason, seems to fear the trains in Thailand.

"Will you be staying with relatives?"  This is the most frequently asked question about our trip.  The answer is, it's doubful.  My wife has two half-sisters in Laos, from her father's first marriage.  By the time everyone gets there, we'll be a big group:  11.  Who has the means to put up 11 people?  Probably not Sy's sisters.  There's also some story of some relative along the way building a sort of guest house there for when they visit Laos.  Will we stay there?  Again with 11 people, it's doubtful.

Then there's the issue of air conditioning.  My mother-in-law has insisted that, absolutely, we'll want to stay in a place with air conditiong.  That if we don't we won't last long.  She also insists that we don't need to make reservations ahead of time.  "Just go there and do it," she says, waving us off.  So, yes, we've looked into possibilities and have them bookmarked on our computer should we have internet access, but beyond our arrival on Tuesday evening in Mukdahan, the schedule is wide open. 

"Does Sy have family over there?"  This question is simply a variation of the one above, and yet not simple to answer.  Where does family begin and end?  If one of my distant Schelhaas residents from the Netherlands were to land here, would they have family here?  Probably at least 60 distant relatives.  In Lao, there are separate words for all kinds of family relations:  older and younger brother and sister, maternal grandparents, fraternal grandparents, maternal uncles and aunts older and younger than your mother, paternal uncles and aunts older and younger than your father.  So, yes, I expect that Sy has family over there, that there will be little end to family, and most of it will fall under the broad category of "cousin."

"Will you be doing any sightseeing?"  No doubt we'll do some.  So far, the major interest is for Sy and her siblings to see personal history sites:  where they were in camp in Thailand; where they lived in Mukdahan for a time; where they crossed the Mekong; where grandma grew up. 

Again considering the size of our group, I'm expecting a lot of our activity to focus around being.  What will we do while we're there?  We'll be there.  We'll procure food, we'll travel to someone's house, we'll watch as it's being cooked, we'll eat it, we'll talk--or I'll listen and try to pick out the 20 Lao words that I know--we'll help clean up, we'll go back to wherever it is we're staying, we'll walk in the street, we'll get on each other's nerves.  By this time, it will no doubt be time to procure food again.  There will be dispute about how to do it and where.  I'm especially prepared for our kids to probably hate it, to be board within the first day.  But that's okay, this trip isn't about them. 

And so we'll spend some time in Mukdahan, cross the river and spend more time in Savannakhet, where my mother-in-law lived most of her life.  Depending on how we like Savannakhet, we'll go up to the capital city, Vientiane, where we'll also find a place to stay, visit "cousins," procure food.  In Vientiane, we have made plans to visit a family that works for CRWRC, a family we met while they were on homestay. 

Then, barring a real phobia of trains on my mother-in-laws part, we'll train back to Bangkok and begin the trip back. 

Even as I write this, it sounds naive, it sounds like we're flying blind.  And we are in some senses.  And that's intimidating and invigorating at the same time.  The amount of borders, boundaries, and barriers we have to cross or navigate is stunning:  umpteen borders, language barriers, cultural misunderstandings, class lines with different rules within a different culture, and family grudges--which exist even before we leave.

And yet we're counting on still being among people, other human beings that use language to build relationships and--what else--procure food.  Sure, we'll be westerners with that passport in our pocket that is said to make the world go round--cash.  But still, there's something larger at work here than just a spendy vacation that we've been saving for all our married lives:  we will travel half the world to return to my wife's place of birth in order to consider world and family upheaval as well as the wonder of culture and diversity, and, in a myriad of ways, we'll depend on the humanity of others to do it. 

Staying Put: Blossoming Weigela

We've lived in the same house now for eight years, located on the downhill slope of the northern edge of the Rock River valley as it cuts through the last vestiges of the Prairie Coteau that stretches all the way from northern South Dakota through southwest Minnesota and into northwest Iowa.  We've come to expect a few things living here, some of them typical:  every spring a robin nests in the arbor outside our sunroom door every spring and baby rabbits are birthed somewhere in the vicinity and eat off our beans.  There's the problematic--a plague of slugs grows like gooey warts on all varieties of plants  come high summer--but also the wondrous: in fall, monarch butterflies gather in bounteous blessing in the sheltered corridor between our house and our neighbor to the east. 

We've somewhat put our stamp on the yard that we inherited.  The bed out front has been transplanted with tall grass prairie plants--little blue stem and black-eyed susans, Russian sage and purple coneflower, but the plants in the backyard remain problematic: a purple-leafed tree sends up succors by the hundreds; two red shrubs filled with prickers simply annoy us; the grapevine over the arbor has never produced like it should, at least partially due to happenstance pruning on our part.  This year, I didn't trim any of those backyard shrubs and they're looking wild and unkempt, though the added foliage has apparently created the perfect love nest for the rabbits who are off to a prolific start propagating their kind. 

But perhaps due to my inattention, one of the unknown shrubs behind the house is blooming like I've never seen it bloom in eight years, producing small pink, trumpet-like buds up and down its long-armed extensions.  As my wife watered the garden--so that the teeming rabbits will have something to eat--and I cleaned up some rotten wood on the back patio, a whirring in the bush caught our attention.  There, darting in and out of the tiny blossoms just inviting enough for their small beaks, was a hummingbird so small that I doubted what I was seeing.  It was no bigger than a large moth, the like of which also proliferates around our house.  As if to confirm that it was indeed a hummingbird, just then an adult showed up momentarily, a male with dark hood and brilliant ruby throat in the dying light, absolutely stunning.  In a moment, he was gone, but the size comparison between the feeding bird and the adult male made clear what we had here:  these were baby hummingbirds, only a fraction of the size of their parents, and they were absolutely feasting on these flowers.

As we watched, we saw a second bird, then, ever more improbably, a third, fourth and fifth--an entire nest of hummingbird babies, hovering at each flower, darting in and out, high and low on this bush I'm note sure ever bloomed before because I'd always over-trimmed it.  Children came from playing in the neighborhood to see the phenomenon, some of them mightily unimpressed by the glorified moths in the bush, all of the babies unremarkable in their brown color except for a slight striping on the mad rush of their wings.  It's something they might never see again, I want to tell them, but just let them watch for a minute or two before they run back to their game. 

This morning, a google search lands me as close as I can get to the bush type: I think it's a type of weigela, a plant native to east Asia, either a Weigela Florida or perhaps even the poetic Wine and Roses Weigela.

In either case, it's beautiful, one of those unexpected gifts of nature that, as Annie Dillard has noted, surprises you with its wonder and extravagance, makes you catch your breath, was under your nose all the time and yet failed to arrest you with its wonder until, voila, it's glory shines forth in blooms and hummingbirds.

It's enchanting; it's entrenching.  We've got a thousand reasons to leave here; between us, we literally put thousands of miles on  driving to jobs further down the coteau.  Further down the coteau, too, we could experience wonders such as these.  And yet, as the memories and moments of wonder stack up in this place, it becomes harder to leave, even against what many would call "common sense."

Laos and the Dalliance of France

In the opening of The Unsettling of America, Wendell Berry asserts that, as Euro-Americans, we are never where we intended to be. We're always headed for somewhere further on, some Eldorado or Promised Land, and this quest, really, has become our landscape so that the real landscape we find ourselves in becomes disposable, not-it, the landscape of discontent--to the dearth, as one might imagine, of that landscape.  I'd always thought of this as a distinctly American illness, as distinctly symptomatic of Euro-American treatment of the American landscape.  Of course, some people would trace it back to Judeo-Christian heritage itself.  No, scratch that--to distinctly Christian heritage:  the Jews know where there promised land is and it's a geographical location, the cause of more local and immediate conflicts.  It's the metaphorical Promised Land, the Distant Shore, the City on a Hill that many people blame for the environmental ills of our time: if the only purpose of life is escape from a ravaged earth, then what good will it do to clean up my neighborhood?  That sort of thing. 

However, after reading a bit of Martin Stuart Fox's A History of Laos, it's clear that there's a distincly European influence in all this placelessness.  The imperialistic impulse that emerges from Europe-- which may or may not be traceable to, but is at least a severe mutation of, the evangelistic impulse, but which is definitely given steroids by Enlightenment visions and ideals--becomes the driving force of displacement in many places in the world, and Laos is one of those places. 

The French came to Laos driven by the idea of empire, after a loss on European soil and on the rebound so to speak. "In the period following the humiliation of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870," writes Stuart Fox, "French imperialists sought to rebuild national prestige through the pursuit of empire."  The way in was through Vietnam, where they already had a foothold; now the idea was an Indochinese empire: expand their influence in Vietnam, spread that to Laos which looked like easy pickings, but don't start a war with Britain who was firmly planted in Siam (Thailand).

As imperialism goes, French Laos is a typical tale: use corvee (forced labor) to build infrastructure, use pre-existing ethnic hierarchy to excise taxes, export resources over the infrastructure and hierarchy to Europe, and all the while look down on the people native to the country. In the case of Laos, the French actually had plans to displace the Lao--or at least make them irrelevant--by importing a higher species, the neighboring Vietnamese.

Stuart Fox writes, "The Vietnamese were seen as an active, expansionist people whose historic destiny, now inherited by France, was to extend their control over the weaker, less 'fit' (for this was the age of Social Darwinism) neighboring peoples" (Stuart Fox 27-28)  Even more overtly, the explorer Jules Harmand had declared that

we can count on the Annamites [Vietnamese], when they will be our subjects, to colonize to our profit a large part of the valley of the great Indo-Chinese river [Mekong] where they will rapidly supplant the debris of decrepit races which inhabit it.  By ourselves, we cannot attempt any enterprise in this country, so rich but so unproductive due to the fault of its actual possessors.  It is necessary first that the Laotians be eliminated, not by violent means, but by the natural effect of competition and the supremacy of the most fit (qtd. in Stuart Fox 47).

This is rhetoric typical of the time.  During this same era, diatribes in U.S. newspapers against Native Americans called for their outright extermination on basically the same Social Darwinist grounds: "decrepit" races didn't deserve to continue; it was the "natural effect of...the supremacy of the most fit." 

Not surprisingly, the French also took care of uprisings in typical imperialist fashion.  In one instance, a distinctly messianic leader arose in Laos who convinced his followers "that they were invulnerable and that bullets would turn into frangipani flowers" (Stuart Fox 35). The result?  They were massacred, and the spiritual leader was detained and "bayoneted to death by a guard while allegedly trying to escape" (Stuart Fox 36).  The similarities between this event and the treatment of Native Americans is spooky:  the Ghost Dancer at Wounded Knee was said to protect the Lakota from bullets--they were massacred; both Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull were detained and killed under questionable circumstances, Crazy Horse similarly bayoneted while trying to escape.

With the "superior" Vietnamese to the East and British-controlled Siam (Thailand) to the west, Laos was a bit of an afterthought, a buffer, an expendable.  The French plan to consolidate Indochina was carried only as far west as the Mekong, which became the border between Laos and Thailand, but which divided ethnic Lao people:  the Lao lived on both sides of the Mekong but, again typical of imperialism, became divided by European politics which saw the Mekong as an obvious if arbitrary border between the interests of Britain and France.

As Berry also notes, there's always another narrative in opposition to the narrative of conquest and rootlessness--the impulse to "stay put."  However, the impulse of the French in Laos was not really to stay put; it was, I think, a more simple kind of envy.  As Virginia Thompson put it in the 1930s,

For the rare Frenchman who sees in the Lao a silly, lazy, and naive people, there are hundreds who are charmed by their gentle affability and their aesthetic appearance...For the European wearied with Western greed and strife, Laos seems to be the answer to all his problems...Laos is in itself a passive reproach to the futility of Europe's bustling activity and soul-searchings" (qtd. in Stuart Fox 41).

While the envy may be simple, however, no doubt this is also an example of "orientalism" at its most dangerous:  because the Lao were "other" enough to envy, Laos was not treated as a real place but as an exotic and unreal place--too tropical to mistake for even a secularized "promised land," too plain to outright rape, but simply an exotic dalliance that was ultimately disposable. 

The Moon of Spawning Crappies

When it comes to spring fishing, I get all existentialist: Nothing seems as important as that fish are caught.  Now. This urgency is part self-concocted mania, part seasonal reality: the wonderful flurry of spring fishing will necessarily give way to the mosquito plagued doldrums of summer.  No, if one is to catch fish, one must catch them when they can be caught. 

To catch them when they can be caught, of course, involves some sleuthing.  Part eve's dropping--I overheard two men at church yesterday say that "everyone had fish" at Lake Benton on opening day, walleyes--and part insider connections--got a text from a friend that said jumbo perch were on the bite at Summit Lake--the best way to find out is to find the bite yourself, to know enough about nature's tea leaves to show up when the bite begins and then ride it until its done.

So, on the impulse of a glorious afternoon, I showed up on the dikes of Lake Shetek.  That first day, the fish could seemingly be caught only adjacent to one specific rock in the shoreline, and fortunately the fishermen that found the spot were from my hometown: once they had enough, they allowed me and my children to squeeze in next to them.  That first day we took home ten fish, crappies.

But that meant urgency. 

The next time they bit in a new place, on the other side of the road, and at a more rapid pace: 17.  The third time, it was farther up the road and in the middle of the afternoon: 20.  The next time, they bit back on the other side of the road, still further up: 17.  Then it scattered and diminished: 8.  And because I couldn't leave it alone: 1.  An almost perfect bell curve. 

The old adage, "Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he'll eat for a lifetime," is a nice philosophy, but it leaves out the ebb and flow of days, weeks, months, seasons.  The part that it misses might be phrased something like this:  "Teach a man to fish and that will mean he'll need to know about 'the bite,' about keeping his ears low to the ground to hear about 'the bite,' or, better yet, will anticipate 'the bite' by reading nature's tea leaves and then invest significant time in order to ride the crest of 'the bite' until it's finished.  Coupling this insistence with some cultural knowledge of food preservation to ensure the fishes that he catches during 'the bite' will last him through the fish-famine of high summer, and he'll eat, day-by-day, for a lifetime." 

Of course, I'm not convinced it's done.  This bite had everything to do with both the seasonal spawning habits of crappies: at first almost all the crappies were females stuffed with lobes of buttery gold eggs; recently, they've been almost all smaller males, but I've caught no fish that are "spawned out."  Despite the recent hiatus, some sort of bite should continue for the near future.

Now, of course, it's tempting to try to hit the crest of other bites.  We were lured to the perch bite last night and found it a false positive: the ratio of four-inch perch to jumbos was about 40:1.  Then there's always that king of fish, the walleye.  Plots are already forming in my subconscious as to when I might sneak away.

What's really bewitching in all of this, however, is the seasonality of it all, the sense of something larger going on than even a man-made calendar.  We're in "the moon of budding plants" for the Ojibwe, but for me we're in the "moon of spawning crappies."  This year, despite the false spring that threatened to false-start the spawning state wide, "the bite" has come relatively late, but it's just one more season in a memorable string:  the mid-fall walleyes at Benton; the spring perch at Hadley; the winter Perch at West Twin; the fall northern pike in the Rock River ; and the list goes on. 

But always the crappies in the spring.  It's the beginning of the year, the first fish you catch with the year's new license. 

At school, one of the first verses my children are taught is Genesis 8:22:  "As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night wil never cease."  I'm perhaps naive about the degree of stocking that keeps fish populations stable in southwest Minnesota, but the DNR doesn't control the spawning impulse of crappies, the urge that pushes them to the rocks along the dikes of Lake Shetek, laid out by the WPA so many years ago.  I'm confident in the process, in the seasons, in the faithfulness of God. 

But I'm also confident in the sinfulness of man.  We've been eating a lot of fish lately, contra what "they" recommend--pan fish once a week, game fish once a month, lest you want to injest enough mercury to make your blood silver.  The balance of nature is a wonderful, delicate thing, larger than us and yet something we dare not disrupt.  While Genesis 8:22 let's us go forward with confidence, lets us build a calendar around seasonal change, it's not a license to the environmental recklessness that some Christians have made it. 

And so while I stand in awe at the crappie spawn and what it represents, I also must consider what the disruption of these processes would look like, what that would mean for human life, how realistic the possibility is.  Cormac McCarthy ends his post-apocalyptic novel The Road with a sobering vision of fish:

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Reading this horror makes me reconsider fish yet again, breaks me off of the urgency of catching fish now to the larger meaning of spring crappie fishing: to read the larger "map" that lies before us in nature, a map infinitely more intricate and significant than we will ever fully know, and to teach even a part of that map to children. 

A Mother's Day Story

The story involves the death of a child.  The first.  From diarrhea-related complications, probably Typhoid. 

The story involves three more boys, born during a time of war.  It involves anxiety over those boys' survival.

The story involves a husband who one day decided to go live with a different woman.

The story involves grandparents who are well-connected to the government, the party in power.  They are more well off than the mother is, even though her in-laws treat her kindly.  The mother remains anxious about losing another child.  When the grandparents can take the two oldest boys in with them, the mother sees to it or agrees to it.  When the war is lost, the grandparents are no longer safe.  When it becomes possible for the grandparents to leave the country with the two boys, the mother acquiesces.  One boy will not forgive her for this for a long time.  The boys and grandparents leave for France.

The story involves a second husband, an army man, worse than the first.  He drinks and is violent.  The mother later tells a story of standing in the way of a beating meant for a two-year-old child. 
The story involves defiance.  Once, at a demand for food at an unreasonable hour, the mother uses her voice on the man.  She tells him he coerced his first wife into her grave.  She tells him she'll piss in his food.  She leaves with two daughters, returns to her mother's house, eeks out a living somehow.

The story involves communism.  When the second husband is taken to re-education camp, he sends a letter, asking the mother to come and join him.  He hints that she can be made to come.  The mother makes plans to escape, to flee the country. 

The story involves a great escape.  The remaining son and grandmother go "fishing" on the Mekong, transfer to another boat when no one is looking, cross to the other side, elude the patrols on the Mekong that try to prevent escapes with machine guns.

Two weeks later, at night, the mother and two daughters, four and two, run along river paths to get to the boat for an escape at night.  Another family with a baby is there.  The baby cries all night.  The boatman does not dare to try the crossing.  The process must be redone several nights later.  Again running paths along the river at night.  Again the boat.  This time the crossing is successful.

The story involves refugee camp:  powdered milk, ration lines, and "wiping butts with sticks."  The story involves waiting, sponsorship, Kentucky Fried Chicken, twenty-below weather. 

The story involves the mother learning a language and learning a trade--sewing.  The story involves her taking a trip to France to reconcile with the angry son.

The story involves time. 

This story involves courage.

This is a story about survival, adaptation, happy endings, grand children. 

This is a Mother's Day story.

Visiting the Healer: Inoculations

It was a preemptive strike, I decided.  A couple of Mondays ago, we prepared ourselves for the deadliest combat to come out of any country, communist or capitalist, developed or undeveloped: germ warfare.  We struck at--or were instructed how to strike at--blood-borne, food-borne, and water-borne illness. 

Let the first world paranoia begin.

We had been instructed to go to this special "travel clinic" by our kids' pediatricians.  "We don't keep all these specialty inoculations on hand," they told us.  Okay then.  This is serious. Specialists. 

It turns out there are two travel clinics--competitors (when businesses compete for your business, the price goes down; this is the truism I'm counting on.  Of course, whose to say they won't compete in painting the most horrific pathogenic vista that they can?  Do I really want to shop around for this sort of thing?)  However, at one of the two we can get the whole family in to one appointment, 8:30 Monday morning--and we're advised to take it because this doctor's usually full-up weeks in advance.  Okay then. 

We leave for our appointment--may wonders never cease--a fraction early.  We've decided to pick up breakfast as an enticement for this trip, leaving in the background of the early morning fog the reality that there may well be shots as part of this otherwise family excursion for which they get to miss school, another carrot. 

Carrot-shmarrot, we bypass the hometown coffee shop for McDonald's drive through, where my kids order the works.  (Note to self: I can no longer get by on the cheap with my family at McDonald's.)  On top of this, the window-worker (what kind of place is this?) tells us to pull ahead to wait for some fresh hashbrowns.  So we do.

Hashbrowns.  Those golden brown oil lollipops.  Those crunchy on the outside, starchy on the inside human salt licks.  How long could it take to fry one of these pre-gridded beauties up? 

It could be long.  It could eat up my precious fraction.  Only when my wife searches out our order and finds out they'd forgotten about us--how could they, I felt such a connection with that window-worker?--can we get back on the road, now not just a fraction but whole numbers late.  We open the bags to find we still don't have hashbrowns. 

Thirty minutes later, we find our spot in the parking lot outside the magically named "Medical Building Two" 11 minutes late for our appointment, wrecking horribly our 6-minute late average.  What would they do to us for this crime?  Send us and our virgin immune systems to face the hordes of tropical viruses unprotected? 

"You're not late, the doctor's not even here yet," the receptionist tells us.  "You can't be late if the doctor's not even here."  I wonder if she's trying to assuage my guilt or simply complaining about this doctor's habits.  Both possibilities are enough to make me question this whole charade. 

However, in little time we're ushered to an exam room:  two chairs, a twirly chair at a plastic desk built into the wall with a computer, an exam table, a window high up in one corner that lets in no light.  It's not white-sterile and asylumesque; it's mauve-sterile and suburbanesque. 

A team of nurses descends on us, taking pulses and temps and blood pressures.  Three for the price of one?  Doubtful.  I'm paying for three nurses to see my children at once.  In five minutes, they flutter away. 

All it takes for the doctor to show up is taking the boys to the bathroom.  I take them; she shows up; my wife looks annoyed. 

We start reviewing the immunizations records, which are faithfully up to date.  Except we never got the second Hep A shot for my daughter.  Except I seemed to have never gotten any shots ever.  But that reflects bad on my parents, not me, and this is what this trip is about:  are we good parents or not? 

As we get past the outer rings of protocol, diseases with powerful names arch across the room, cloud the air above us, make the already tight confinement of the exam room feel even closer:  hepatitis, malaria, typhoid, Japanese encephalitis, tetanus, tuberculosis.  These names are ancient, Latinate (maybe), undefeatable.  "Doctor, can't you do something?" I want to yell. I feel like the narrator of Don Delillo's White Noise, who finds that death has entered his body in just such an exam room in just such a shiny building.  

With three healthy children sparking throughout the room--examining stolen rhino horns in National Geographic, lounging in tween lethargy on the papered exam table, headlocking big brother--it's enough to make one question the sanity of even going to this deadly place, where even one sip of the wrong type of water could mean a protracted dance with death. 

After questions and instructions and warnings--no tap water, no uncooked seafood, no uncooked anything; emergency diarrhea pills for all; an emergency strategy if any of us get bit by a stray dog--I need something to cut through it all.  "Excuse me.  Can I ask you something?  Do you go back to..."  I'm trying to proceed with caution, and I manage it without saying, "You're not from here are you?" but it's still some leading question like, "When you go back to India"--the "home" country I had managed to apprehend--"don't you indulge the food culture?  Are you really this careful about all you eat?" 

I'm look for--I'm not sure what I'm looking for. I'm looking for subtext, for an aside that says, "Between you and me this is all White Noise paranoia.  If you come back here and you haven't eaten some street vendor food, and you haven't eaten something right off the tree that someone hands to you without washing it, and you haven't eaten something in someone's house that you don't know how it's been cooked--then I'm going to tell you you wasted your trip..." 

Nope.  I've watched too much Anthony Bourdain.  What I get is pretty much party line.  "When I go, I make sure what I eat is fully cooked..."

Turns out, too, that I'm the only one to get a shot, a Hep A and B combo pop, and I play it up for the children.  "Tell me, tell me when it's going in," I say, turning away in angst as she is already done.  I'm such a clown, such a good father; yes I am.  I've taken them out of school--for nothing but just in case.

The rest is prescriptions for pills.  Although there's been mention of some different pills that cost more or less, there is no tally of the cost of all this on paper and therefore there's certainly not any real numbers floating around my head.  It's all just necessary; it's all just part of being a good parent, first-world style.

And as we exit "Medical Building Two" and enter our Toyota Sienna, I have another feeling prevalent in White Noise, the feeling of being well-insured.  I'd been to see the healer, and she, with her incantations and ceremonial instruction, had done what she could for my whole family.

On the way home, my wife's sister calls:  she's been to see the doctor in town and gotten all she needed.  That doctor is exactly a one-minute drive from my house.

"Should we stop and get our hashbrowns?"  I ask my wife.