Chapter 13. Lemongrass Stains - Vientiane

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It will take me three nights in Vientiane to figure out why I would want to spend even one. It is not that the Lao capital is necessarily a bad place, but I question what purpose it really serves. Dozens of travel agencies advertise over-the-road and aerial means of escape from Vientiane’s ordinary streets that lead nowhere special. Vientiane takes care of the hundreds of welcome encroachers whose sights are already set on points deep into the more remote provinces. Orlando and Las Vegas fear not: Vientiane poses you no threat.
As I cannot recall all the newly-independent Soviet republics and peripheral satellites, Laos is the first true Communist country in which I have set foot. In fact, the closest I have come to anything resembling the Lao People’s Democratic Republic is my yearly weekend trip I take every year to Vermont. The Lao State controls all political activity and allows no dissent or significant protest, as seen by the absence of editorials and letters to the editor in the local newspaper. The English Language Vientiane Times reads very much like the Havana Free Press, but with more international wire reports from the AP. Because of Laos’ underdevelopment and open attitude to private investment and economic growth, visitors do not feel oppressed. As long as no one is here to disturb the current political hierarchy, the average backpacker from Oslo will barely notice the difference. Laos’ economic needs are so great, its one-party state hardly matters; the nation struggles too much to be a bother to another’s sovereignty. As luck would have it, it is not this regime’s active policy to abuse or terrorize its citizenry.
The currency, the kip, is as artistic and ornate is it is worthless outside its borders. Notes come in futile denominations of five hundred, one thousand, two thousand, five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand, and fifty thousand. The government produces no coinage and the only practical use I have reached for the five hundred note is as a bookmark for Taipan. As the current exchange rate hovers near ten thousand to one dollar, I instantly became a millionaire upon turning over one hundred dollars. The Thais don’t even acknowledge the illustrations of framed pastoral images of women harvesting fruit in woven baskets. It isn’t that people in Thailand look down upon Laos, rather the colorful notes have less value than Kleenex™ south of the Mekong. On the flip side of the five hundred three men work together on a public works project for the production of electricity, a commodity that has yet to reach the nation’s most unfortunate. Tractors plow the land in the background. On all notes the universal symbol of political failure, horror, and subjugation,the hammer and sickle, shines prominently.
At the Mali Namphu Guesthouse, the porter hauls my belongings through a splendid patio garden to Room 109. He shows me how to manage the air conditioning unit suspended from the ceiling in the back. This is critical, of course. I thank him for the help and as he closes the door he says, “Welcome to Vientiane.” “Thank you again.” The door almost goes completely shut when he reopens it, as he forgot one small detail he feels necessary to convey.
“Sir, no Lao lady in room here. OK?”
“OK.” My Nong Khai guesthouse was equally insistent.

The Namphu district is one of hungry tuk-tuk drivers. It secures one end of the city’s tourist slum from which many never escape. At the other end is the viscous water of the Mekong, across from which slivers of Si Changmai, Thailand are visible. Beyond the pervasive guesthouses, Internet cafés, and cheap restaurants, a piece of Laos’ colonial past remains alive and well. Where baked good are to be scoffed at or simply not discussed in Thailand, they abound in Vientiane, all thanks to the French. The French left little behind that the Lao people could latch onto with pride. Nevertheless, Lao bakers were paying very close attention the day of baguette, crêpes and croissant lessons. It is the first time I have had bread worthy enough not to be fed to the fish in the Mekong. The croissants are succulent and Laos know how to pound out an espresso as well as any Madame in a Parisian café. The egg, onion, and ham crêpe I had for breakfast will stay with my taste buds years after it leaves my system. However your colonial past haunts you…To the French!: Merci on this one. Very well done.
The French language survives only in place names and among the upper middle class of Laos. Streets still carry Rue or Avenue on the signposts, but Road on maps and guidebooks. Administrative centers remain in French, such as the Ministère de l’Agriculture et des Forêts. Highly trained professionals such as the physician I consulted on how to get a quick refill of antibiotics spoke perfect French. But his staff and the nurses conversed with me in basic English. A French family checking in the Mali Namphu shortly after I did nearly went into shock when Mom had to speak to the concierge in English and interpret for her husband. I could scarcely control my delight.

Kop Chai Deu is a hip tropical eatery where foreigners to forget that they are in Laos. After the loveliest of Lao women greet guests at the entrance, the only other Asian faces I see are service staff and the rare Lao extrovert with the inclination to entertain guests or practice his English. With a small stage in the rear in the corner by a pool table, I could be in Mykonos if it weren’t for the absence of feta cheese and olives on the menu. I finish my awesome pork egg rolls while at dinner with two young Dutch women, just out of college. I have my standards for cultural immersion, and Kop Chai Deu does not come close to meeting them. However, I have another policy about not refusing dinner with two young women, regardless of nationality.

Having been ceremoniously thrown out of the National Stadium in Tirana, I held moderate expectations that the same would not happen to me here. Nothing can prepare anyone for the anticlimactic, if not complete surprise of its Lao counterpart. The open-air concrete receptacle embodies the present-day state of affairs in Vientiane. Four steel light towers illuminate an open area of pitch and two soccer goals encased by a ragged but spongy eight lane track. The Carlsberg sponsorship sign directly across the main viewing area is upside down. The stands, like the mezzanine section, are unswept, unmopped, and filthy. Trash collection hasn’t taken place in at least a week. Athletes in training hang their laundry out to dry on uncomfortable team benches. The scoreboard is an electrical engineering marvel for 1952. If anywhere else, Vientiane’s National Stadium is not where athletes come to retire; it where they come to die.
But we are not anywhere else. This is Laos. Beyond the surface, there is still much to value. Members of the national boxing team subject themselves to grueling training sessions of calisthenics, push-ups, and sit-ups. One finely toned athlete in particular ignores the brutal heat to which his body has become acclimated. He sprints forward only to be held back by elastic cords he has harnessed to himself at the waist. At the other end, the cords are firmly latched to the stadium wall. The boxer performs ten straight sprints until he can exert no more. I am in pain and out of breath just watching him.
One teenager in a soccer uniform sits in the stands and daydreams in the direction of the pitch. Maybe he aspires to the Lao national side. In a side pavilion, a karate coach calls out sharp staccato instructions for the team. They toss each other about and slam each other on the pads. When out of view, you’d think someone was getting flogged from the painful screaming. All exude self-discipline and dedication. None fall out of line; none participate for recreation. It is serious. There is no air-conditioning, no comfy locker rooms, no film rooms with reclining chairs and remote controls, and no press releases. The humidity is unbearable.
Where it is easy to picture decay and neglect, those with different aspirations see hope and glory. Next Olympics in Beijing, I will route for the Lao in boxing or in karate. Just to have known the simplicity, harshness, and shortcomings they must endure and ignore, how could you not?

The vast majority of Vientiane has yet to convince me that I should remove my camera from my daypack. During an afternoon walk, I think back again to Tirana, Vientiane’s European sister city. Are there postcards of Vientiane? If so, why? I love outdoor markets, but the capital’s Salat Tao would be half its size if it weren’t for the dozens of stands and cases containing cell phones, common jewelry, and knockoff DVD’s. The adjoining mall is the same as the market, only with three air-conditioned levels and tiled flooring. If not for the cool interior and Copa América match between Uruguay and Brazil, Salat Tao, too, would be a write off. As I departed the food court on the top floor, I turned the Chinese-made monitor in the direction of three merchants on a break. Though with only a few minutes left in the match and Brazil up, they focused on the action, but did not forget to give me the thumb’s up for the consideration. The only foreigner in the mall at the time, I got a trio of “Twanhk Woo’s” as I slipped through the exit.
Some of the city’s wats conflict with their surroundings. Anytime on my way to nowhere in particular, I traverse them. I do not necessarily observe a certain characteristic of them or try to compare its Buddha to the last one I came across. Rather, in Southeast Asian cities, wats often supply an often-needed reprieve from traffic, fumes, blaring horns, and reckless commotion. As they live on site, monks hang their robes out as laundry from their cabins. To my left, a middle aged cleric sweeps the front patio to the man temple and instructs the younger apprentices to put out tables and chairs for an afternoon social function. They are expecting visitors. None rush. None speak and they hardly make a sound. The folding chairs are placed softly to the floor. Somehow, their silence muffles the continuous roar of motorbikes, which is Vientiane.
In a frivolous attempt to copy the grandest thoroughfare in the world, Vientiane’s Avenue Lane Xang is the red headed stepchild of the Champs-Élysées. It is positioned between the Soviet-like Presidential Palace and the Victory Gate, a replica of the Arc-de-Triomphe. Designed and approved by both the Adams Family and the Munsters, I pick up my pace to and cross the two-lane Étoile to see if it is actually possible to go inside and then up. Thankfully, my prayers are answered: I pay the thirty-cent entrance fee and begin climbing, but not before I read:

“At the Northeastern end of Lane Xane Ave. arises a huge structure resembling the Arc de Triomphe. It is the Patuxay, or Victory Gate of Vientiane, built in 1962 (B.E. 2505), but never complete due to the country’s turbulent history. From a closer distance, it appears even less impressive, like a monster of concrete. Nowadays, this place is used as a leisure ground for the people of Vientiane and the seventh floor on top of the building serves as excellent view point over the city.”

The climb is up a putrid staircase of cobwebs and smells of urine. After passing through two separate floors of trinket stalls, it culminates in an unimpeded panorama of urban mediocrity. The fountain at street level does not function. As Vientiane has no business district, no skyscrapers catch the eye. Only communication towers reach above ten stories high. Vientiane is moving on a sunny morning. Backhoes rip up earth to spread the foundation of new building. Pedestrians walk in the shade and hold up their briefcases to shelter their heads from the sun. I prolong my visit to the top in order for my t-shirt to dry out and converse with a very eager monk. He frequents the monument to practice his English with foreign visitors, who soon begin to arrive. It is my cue to leave and I depart and drift away from downtown Vientiane on foot.
Towards the faceless outskirts of town, I find the one thing that I avoid on warm sunny days without question, a museum. Museums for me house relics of the irrelevant and consume time better spent interacting with humans or playing checkers. Except for the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, undoubtedly the greatest museum on the planet, they are forgettable edifices providing forgettable glimpses into the mundane.
Not so in Vientiane. I had lumbered as far as I was willing to, a straight shot of little less than a mile past the Indonesian and Filipino embassies. With a re-soaked shirt, empty water bottle, and Vientiane starting to dissipate, I studied a sign that read, “Museum of the People’s Liberation Army”. The courtyard behind the sign features a gilded statute of Lao heroes in a Soviet pose, one reaching out to the people. To the right are two military helicopters and a biplane.
Inside the imposing white block columned construction is no more than a fantastic and masterfully presented display of Communist propaganda. An army official greeted me at the entrance, showed me to the guestbook, and took an admission fee from me. As I was the only arrival, he quickly ran ahead into the two-floor repository of vehicles, armaments, and historical photographs to turn all the lights on. Before I started my self-guided tour, the uniformed guard removed my backpack from my shoulder and stored it on the other side of a locked door. He did so with a smile. He didn’t ask, either. He then opened his hand in the direction of the showcases as if to say, go ahead. Two steps forward, he held me up for a second and said, “No photo” very sternly. Odd I thought: it wasn’t a polite request, but was delivered with a smile.
The first floor is connected to the second by a grand spiral staircase, all white, like the rest of the museum’s interior. Though the first floor‘s displays of large bulky machinery came with no English translation, none was really needed. The upstairs is a treasure chest of what can transpire when a nation knows no secondary or contradicting opinions to historical events. Well preserved black-and-white photographs portray in striking detail the Communist takeover in 1975 and conflicts with the Americans, French, and Thais. On the upper floor, captions are written in both Lao and English. For every situation in which the words “French” appears, it is preceded by “colonialist”. For “Amercian”, “imperialst” comes before and the Thais are dubbed with my favorite: “extremely right”. Photos tell the story of French soldiers battering women with bayonets. American planes seemingly bombed Lao livestock with the intent to cause starvation. The Thais appeared to get the worse of the abuse. They are looked upon with disdain, as they are the capitalist neighbor that has intruded upon the sovereignty of the Lao PDR. It attests to an inferiority complex or long-time rivalry in which the Lao side has never been able to hold its own. Under the present regime, Laos never will.
Great homage is paid to the victors without context, the absence of which epitomizes the scale of self-love the Communist regime has for itself. There is no lead up, no setting the stage, no attempt to explain the actions of the enemy. I admit Laos has been a trampled pawn on the Southeast Asia stage. But its government has created an incomplete and aggrandizing monument to add to the justification of its long overdue demise.
I never put my camera in my daypack, which the guard took from me. It stayed deep in my front pocket beyond the observation of the personnel; even I had forgotten it was there. When viewing the neat and snappy displays with glorified explanations in a deep, quiet alcove with no one else around, I stabbed for it to get a snapshot. I even managed to turn the flash mode off while it was inside my shorts so I could get away with a quick, if prohibited souvenir of my visit. Just as my hand with camera within surfaced at waist level, I turned around. From the top of the display wall was a closed circuit camera pointed right at me.
Big brother was watching.

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