by Brett Dakin
On the other hand, his position did come with a few perks. For one, it guaranteed him the use of the UNDP project car, the white Mitsubishi sedan parked outside the NTA. And it ensured a steady supply of invitations to seminars and study tours in far-flung destinations like Thailand, Singapore, Japan, and Chile. A seminar on tourism for Lao officials in Santiago? You got it. It seemed at times absurd, but trips like this were supposed to help Desa and whoever else was chosen to go along, to better understand tourism planning and promotion. All they really did was to give them a chance to make a little extra money on the side, through the generous per diem that the UN allowed for international travel.
Was this corruption? Desa’s actual salary was such a pittance, you couldn’t blame him for jumping at the chance. Those few US dollars he could save by staying in cheaper accommodation and eating cheaply while overseas (if they spent less than their daily per diem, they were rarely required to return the difference) made a big difference to his wife and children. Or perhaps you could blame him. My contemporaries at the NTA would often complain, behind closed doors, that Desa liked to hoard all overseas opportunities. If an application for a seminar in Tokyo or a conference in Bangkok arrived in the mail, they lamented, the vice-chairman would simply sign himself up and go, with nary a thought to how a less senior staff member might benefit. This pattern, repeated in offices throughout Laos, left the government’s younger staff with little international experience—just what they would need to lead the country to a better future. Perhaps they too just wanted the chance to make some extra cash, but my friends had a point.
In any case, Desa had a lot more on his mind than developing sound tourism policies. His teenage son had dropped out of school at 15, and was struggling to find a place for himself in the wilting Lao economy. What was the point in attending school when there would be no jobs waiting for him when he completed his studies? Desa’s son spent his days hanging out with friends in a beer shop near the river. All of his friends owned motorbikes; whether they were stolen or purchased legally by their fathers (most of whom were civil servants) with the help of international development aid, no one really knew. “He wants me to buy him a motorbike, but I’m not sure,” Desa told me. “If he wants to go somewhere, I’ll just take him.”
Desa had reason to be concerned about his son. Teenage gangs were rampant in Vientiane, as they had been for years. Many Lao men in their thirties still sported the tattoos they’d picked up from their days running with one of the capital’s many neighborhood gangs decades ago. Drug abuse among teenage boys in Vientiane was on the rise, particularly the use of amphetamines—yaa baa, or “crazy medicine”—which were spilling over the border from Thailand. The city’s public health system was completely unable to deal with the problem of drug addiction; victims were being treated in the psychiatric ward of Mahosot Hospital, the country’s largest public health facility. The government was reluctant to openly acknowledge the serious problems with which Lao youth were struggling. So was the community. After Desa hinted at his son’s troubles, I asked, “Do you ever talk with other families about these things?”
“Never,” he replied, quickly. “I can find a way to solve them on my own.”
To Americans, the idea that young adults have a hard time during adolescence is nothing new. We understand that there are problems common to all teenagers, and this helps us to handle them. In fact, Americans are awash in the psychology of teenagers, as their escapades feature prominently on the nightly news and now dominate popular culture. At a time when teen queens like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera reign supreme, we can scarcely escape adolescents and their endless woes. But in Laos, the very concept of adolescence was foreign. “It seems that children here, especially boys, always have problems at this age,” said Desa. “I wonder why.” He seemed unconvinced when I told him that boys around the world went through similar struggles in their teenage years.
“Really?” Desa replied. Just then, his mobile phone, purchased by the NTA, rang. It was his son. He hadn’t been home the night before, and was calling to let his father know where he was. And, incidentally, to ask if he could borrow the car. “As you can see,” said Desa, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the troubled downtown, “there’s nothing for him here. Maybe I’ll send him abroad.”
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The day Desa was fired, it rained. The skies parted and emptied torrents of water on Vientiane. It poured down, beating on the roof of the NTA with such force that I could barely hear myself think. Deep puddles formed inside my office. My desk was wet. All work ceased, and the staff congregated on the balcony overlooking Lan Xang Avenue to observe the rain. In the hallways, the pounding of the raindrops was accompanied by hushed whispers. Did you hear about the vice-chairman? As soon as I got wind of the news, I went upstairs to look for Desa.
I found him in his office, alone. The lights were off, and Desa was sitting at his desk, considering the piles of papers that surrounded him. The decision had arrived in the form of a prime ministerial decree, announcing that Desa no longer had a position at the NTA. Effective immediately, he was expected to report to work at the Ministry of Justice. There had been no warning, no explanation. And no job description. Desa had called a friend at Justice to see if he had any information. It was news to him, as well.
I, of course, was enraged. After so many years of service in this government, how could Desa be treated so poorly? It wasn’t just, I argued. It wasn’t fair. My young American sensibilities were offended by this transgression of what I considered to be right. But this wasn’t only a question of justice; I was more than professionally involved. During my time at the NTA, I had come to view Desa not only as a teacher and colleague, but also a friend. I wanted to do something for him, but I was helpless. Desa, on the other hand, didn’t seem nearly as agitated.
“You see, this is the situation here in Laos,” he calmly explained.
While I was dejected, Desa was undeterred. Perhaps it had only been a matter of time. He already had another project up his sleeve, a private enterprise that would capitalize on his NTA connections. Desa’s latest scheme was a Visit Laos Year 1999-2000 commemorative doll, Xang the Elephant. This plaster model of an elephant playing the khene, a simple bamboo pipe and the national instrument, would be produced cheaply in Thailand and sold to tourists in Vientiane. This project was a sure-fire failure—I knew of not a single tourist who would buy a plaster model of a pink elephant—but I didn’t have the heart to tell Desa.
We bade farewell, and promised to keep in touch. Given the size of Vientiane, I knew it wouldn’t be hard. I wished him luck in his new job, and he just smiled. Desa hadn’t said as much, but I knew that he had no intention of following the prime minister’s order to work at the Ministry of Justice. He had suffered long enough as an employee of the government. He was ready to move on. The regime would lose one of its greatest assets, but Desa would regain some of his dignity.
Outside the (now former) vice-chairman’s office, I ran into a colleague in the darkened hallway. “You know what my father told me about the Ministry of Justice?” he asked me under his breath. “It’s where they put people they want out.” As the rain continued to fall outside, I gathered my things and wondered how I’d possibly get home on my motorbike. Desa was on his way out, but I imagined that he was happy enough to be leaving. And, hey, at least he had that UN project car to take him wherever was heading.
My Honda Dream
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People in Vientiane don’t walk. Nor do they ride bicycles. Even when no motorized vehicle is anywhere to be found, most Vientiane residents will refuse to resort to their pedestrian power. If they can’t get a ride, they’ll just sit in the shade and wait. It’s too hot, after all, and no one’s in much of a rush. The only people in Vientiane silly enough to walk around are the tourists—and the occasional expat. When I arrived, cars were still rare, but the city had long been colonized by the motorbike. Not just any old motorbike, mind you
. Only one model was worth your time: the Honda Dream II. Everyone in Vientiane owned, or desperately wanted to own, a Honda Dream. This was a powerful dream, and one from which the capital wouldn’t awake any time soon. Not long after my arrival, I too was taken under its spell.
During my first few weeks in Vientiane, I relied on my feet and on the occasional tuk-tuk to get around. Initially, riding in a tuk-tuk—a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi with two short benches strapped on the back, covered by a tarp and often painted in festive colors—was exciting. After flagging down a tuk-tuk and giving a general idea of where I wanted to go, I hopped in without the faintest idea of where I might end up. Some days it took ten minutes to get home from work; other days, it took an hour. Needless to say, I came to know Greater Vientiane very well. A few roads in the city had actually been paved, and those that had been were graced with a series of mammoth potholes—and since the benches were rarely cushioned, a tuk-tuk ride wasn’t always comfortable. There were no fixed prices for tuk-tuks, particularly for foreign customers, so bargaining was mandatory. Before even so much as touching the contraption, I’d have to engage in an elaborate negotiation as to the appropriate fare. Before long, the tuk-tuk became more tiresome than titillating.
Vientiane’s public bus system, such as it was, wasn’t much help, either. I never did discover the logic behind the routes, which mostly connected the downtown with the outlying neighborhoods. In any case, I doubt the established route mattered much, as the drivers seemed to stop wherever a passenger happened to live. They would stop at individual houses to deliver messages or packages. To drop people off, the buses would stop in places that appeared at first to be uninhabited. Not infrequently at such stops, a woman and her baby would step down from the bus and march off into a field toward a small hut in the distance. They would eventually be welcomed home by a sister cooking dinner. In one respect, buses in Laos were much more convenient than any in the developed world—they provided door-to-door service. But as a result, they took forever, and sometimes I wasn’t up for a unique cultural experience. Sometimes I just wanted to get home.
When I’d decided that the Honda lifestyle was for me, I mentioned it to Oudom—General Cheng’s driver, who was well-connected in the world of used motorbikes—and after work one day he drove me to one of the suspiciously numerous dealerships around town. From afar, these places didn’t appear to be centers of commerce—there were no signs—but just residential driveways filled with old motorbikes. I had no idea what I was looking for, of course, but I quickly settled on a used Dream II, red and white trim, with just about 100 cc of power. The horn was silent, the speedometer was broken, and the odometer had stopped keeping record long ago. To me these seemed like mere quibbles, and after a bit of bargaining, we arrived at a price of 750 dollars—a large percentage of my stipend for the year, but worth it, I convinced myself, by thinking of the tuk-tuk ride that awaited me if I didn’t make the purchase. The bike came complete with a packet of papers, and, though I couldn’t read a word, they looked legitimate enough.
It didn’t take long to master the Dream. Unencumbered by unreliable bus schedules and unrelenting tuk-tuk drivers, I could control my own destiny. I had the freedom not only to travel back and forth between the NTA and my house with ease, but also to take long rides through the narrow, winding dirt roads of Vientiane, or to explore the countryside. These trips were often when I felt most at peace, when it was clearest to me why I’d come to Laos. Not when I was in the office struggling with the computer and battling split infinitives. Not when I was learning to dance the lam vong or make sticky rice. But rather when I was out on the road, the warm wind whipping at my face, seeing at least a part of the country, and meeting people along the way. It was also when I felt most free. Living in a place where one’s behavior was tightly controlled and one’s every movement watched, a motorbike was one of the best means of escape. On my Honda Dream, I felt as free as I ever had before in my life.
There were only a handful of traffic signals in Vientiane. (There were none anywhere else in Laos.) Despite their scarcity, these lights didn’t receive much respect. Even when they were working, which wasn’t regularly, no one really paid attention to them. Most drivers seemed to regard them as an inconvenience—a necessity, perhaps, but one imposed upon the city by outside forces of development, and not one to take very seriously. When I was driving around town and a traffic light happened to turn red, I would usually stop. As I waited for the light to change, a group of vehicles would gather behind me. Slowly, quietly, the pressure would begin to build. I would hear the impatient sound of depressed accelerators, and out of the corner of my eye would see the wheels beside me creeping forward. Soon, I’d feel my own wheels moving. At a certain point, a collective decision would suddenly materialize out of the fumes. As a group, we would take off without so much as a glance at the signal or the cross traffic. We’d decided that the time was right, and had gone for it. Overwhelmed by the power of the group, I found myself swept right on through the red light. The forgotten traffic signal was left behind in a cloud of dust.
___
Desa liked to call them les mouches. Flies. Dressed in drab green uniforms, they always seemed to be buzzing about like insects. They hovered over you, always ready to pounce. You wanted to swat them away, but were never quite sure that you could. Crime was on the rise in Vientiane, but the city’s police force seemed to spend most of its time engaged in one activity: inspecting papers. At a certain point in the evening, usually around nine o’clock, but a bit later on the weekends, the police would suddenly emerge from the shadows. They would set up shop along the sides of the city’s roads in a few strategic locations, often just around a corner or beyond a traffic light. When the spirit moved them, they would select a motorbike or car and pull it over, furiously blowing their whistles.
The first time this happened to me, I dutifully stopped and presented my foreign ID card. Was this what he wanted? I also handed him the pile of incomprehensible papers I’d been given with the motorbike. But this wasn’t enough; the officer seemed to want something more than my ID. He handed the papers back and spoke for a few minutes in a calm, didactic tone. Given my rudimentary Lao, I couldn’t decipher his subtle hints, however, and I politely said good-night and went on my way.
It was never clear to me why the police stopped people. Drivers in Vientiane were more fastidious than most in Southeast Asia about wearing their helmets. Drunk driving was widespread, but the police didn’t target drivers who were under the influence. Were they checking for stolen motorbikes? Motorbike theft in Vientiane was rampant, and there was a huge trade in pilfered Honda Dreams. Red and white, as it happened, was the preferred color. But how could a policeman have identified a stolen vehicle? They were usually repainted, and they all looked exactly the same. Even the regime’s original reason for conducting spot checks—to keep tabs on people’s movements in, out, and around the city—was untenable. The police were outnumbered and under-equipped; they had no cars of their own and had to share motorbikes. All I could conclude about this police activity was that it was merely an end in itself, a way for the government to announce its presence and insert itself into people’s lives and to keep them guessing. For the officers themselves, it was probably also a way to make a little extra money on the side.
After a while, I just stopped stopping. I ignored les mouches. As I drove past them in defiance of their orders, I could hear their whistles in the wind behind me. But I wasn’t worried. They would have to abandon their position to come after me, and there was a surplus of unsuspecting drivers. I probably shouldn’t have been so cavalier. While the law in Laos requires arrest warrants issued by a prosecutor, and the Lao constitution provides for procedural safeguards, the police weren’t known to respect these provisions. They often used arrest as a means of intimidation and to exact bribes, and found it easy to rely on exceptions to the warrant requirement for “urgent” cases. And while the law provided for a one-year limit for detention wit
hout trial, in practice this was often ignored.
But on my Honda Dream, I felt invincible. And even if a policeman did decide to hop on his motorbike and follow me, I could always drop the name of my boss and star English student. One mention of General Cheng would likely have swatted away even the most zealous of flies.
The Game
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The leg of the elephant closes the beak of the bird.
Lao Proverb
“It feels good to talk to you, you know,” Mon told me as she glanced nervously at the door.
Mon’s desk in the International Co-operation Unit at the NTA sat just across from mine. Our office was a modest affair, presided over by two lazily creaking ceiling fans that just barely cut through the thick humidity. Forgotten faxes and memoranda fluttered in the gentle breeze below. A heavy layer of dust coated the furniture. The scene was dimly lit by a set of flickering fluorescent lights. A computer sat in one corner but it was almost always turned off; at any one time, there was only enough electricity for the fans, the lights, or the computer. If I switched on the light, the fans would stop turning. If I turned on the fan while Mon was using the computer, it would begin screeching and then crash. I liked to refer to the International Co-operation Unit as the ICU—this place did not offer any intensive care, but it certainly could have used some.