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Published: September 28th 2009
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Dreamily, I fell in to my new job, working at a Belgian Beer Bar in Luang Prabang, Laos. After spending the morning at Big Brother Mouse, the children's book publisher, teaching English to high school boys, and the afternoon speaking with novice monks, visiting temples, swimming, learning and exploring, I would arrive at work around 3:30. I was expected to dress up a little bit, which in this town meant putting on a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. This was my initiation in the Laos tradition of wearing long-sleeves and long-pants despite hot, hot weather. (Many Lao people I've asked actually believe doing so keeps them cooler, besides from protecting them from the sun.)
Often, I'd pick some flowers from a tree or bush on my way to work, and place the blooms in glasses around the bar, softening the serious interior. Renovations on the bar, in a building which was once a police headquarters, had been completed only months earlier. A single room, the bar was simply gorgeous; beautiful, hand-finished wood work; a smooth counter-top, benches, stools, granite tables and a stone-floor. And it was always cool inside. Every person who walked in to that room could
not believe such a stunning bar existed right there, in Luang Prabang, beside the Mekong.
Upon arriving, I would open up the front doors and windows, wipe down the tables and chairs, and stock the ice-box with beers. The ice-man would arrive soon after, usually on a motorbike with a side-car filled with bags of ice, but sometimes in a pick-up truck, the bed stacked with the ice, and he would drop off six bags of ice. Using a block of wood, I would pound the ice in to smaller pieces, and then use it to fill the ice-box. I would ensure my glasses were clean, that my liquor bottles held booze and that the lights were on in the bar and the bathroom.
At 4, the bar was officially open. Oftentimes, it would remain empty for hours, void of visitors, as it was a new bar, and not well known yet. These evenings were dreamy. I would sit at one of the tables on the sidewalk in front of the bar, a cold drink at hand, and watch the sun set over the Mekong River. A nightly parade of motorbikes, coming home from school and work, going
to the temple or to soccer practice, or heading out for dinner was my entertainment. Often people I knew would pass by, waving and smiling. Passerbyers I didn't know would often wave or smile too. Women and girls sitting side-saddle in their long traditional skirts, tiny dogs sitting in baskets, children standing on motorbike seats, holding to their parent's shoulders. A few sweet neighborhood dogs would regularly come visit me in the evenings, walking in to the bar for a petting, a snack and a lie-down. Then all of a sudden they'd be gone, off down the street, wrestling, or playing king-of-the mountain on piles of sand. A family with two little girls lived directly next to the bar, and these girls were my favorite visitors. They reminded me of me and my sister when we were little, as they had the same three-year age difference, and each one held characteristics of each of us. The little girl was adorable but silly and naughty, as I was, while the older girl was more serious, yet very curious and smart. They spoke no English, and my attempts at English lessons with them did not go well. As my Lao improved, I
could speak to them a little bit, but mostly we happily communicated in symbols and smiles, drinks and snacks and their favorite, drinking straws.
When customers came in to the bar, they would sit, happy to have found belgian beer in Southeast Asia, and invariably tell me interesting stories about their travels or their home countries. They came from all over the world; England, Australia, Japan, Sweden, Venezuela, Columbia, Belgium. I would tell them about Lao culture, words they needed to know, cultural nuancies to be aware of, places in town not to miss. Most customers I would force to ingest lao lao, the local rice whiskey, made by Lao people in their homes. Ours was produced and bottled by the grandmother of the little girls next door. Its taste is exactly the same as the taste of gasoline. But its a big part of tradition, drank at every Lao celebration or ceremony, and no visit to Laos should conclude without consuming it. Lao lao is also extremely high in alcohol, meaning it results in a good time had by all, quickly, upon consumption.
Around eleven, if the customers had all departed, I would clean up the bar,
and with pencil and paper, tally up the nights sales. We accepted Lao kip, Thai baht, Euro, Pounds and US dollars, so sometimes the tallying could be a little complex. Fortunately, I had a calculator for the conversions, and sales were generally around 50-75 USD, so there wasn't too much money to keep track of. I'd lock up the bar at eleven-thirty and slip the money under my boss's door, one house over. Eleven-thirty is officially town curfew, when all tourists are required to be in their hotels or guesthouses, and all bars and restaurants are to be closed. However, exceptions are perfectly acceptable if one knows the right people, and if customers wanted to stay later, I could just close the front wooden doors, and keep the bar going as late as necessary. I could then escort customers out the back door when they were ready to leave.
As I now worked during my usual meditation time, 5:30 PM, I started a new meditation time, at eleven-thirty, when I left the bar. I would still go to my favorite temple, one with a gorgeous garden, benches and numerous peaceful Buddha statues, but now the neighborhood was silent. At 5:30, the monks and novices would be in the temple, chanting their evening prayers, creating a beautiful melody, and the neighborhood would be alive with kids playing soccer, families cooking dinner and people driving home from work. At eleven-thirty, the only sound was the occasional distant motorbike, and the intermittent chirping of the gecko, calling, "Gecko! Gecko! Gecko!." (Seriously! That's the noise it makes!) I would sit on the same bench in the garden, still and thoughtful for thirty minutes, but now embraced by the darkness and tranquility of the town. I felt safe, very thankful and oh, so happy.
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