Another Quiet American

by Brett Dakin

  Most of what the tourists had to say was overwhelmingly positive: “Laos is a beautiful country with very gracious people,” one wrote. According to a Belgian visitor, “Laos is nice and friendly.” Complaints tended to be minor: “Laos is good country and people are very good. Culture is amazing. Only cleanliness is not good,” wrote one Pakistani tourist. His compatriot added, “Lao PDR is very good. Country and people too. But in Lao is cleaning problem.” Transportation problems were among the most frequent complaints: “I think domestic airplane is not safety,” wrote a Japanese. “Kind people but very dirty roads.” “It was difficult to go for a walk because the road was under water.”

  The tourists had some very helpful suggestions: “An ATM would help a lot.” (Tell me about it.) “I will like your city or government to have a business transaction with Nigerians.” An American was typically take-charge: “Get better planes for domestic Lao Aviation flights.” Did they realize that we rarely even had toilet paper at the office? Some visitors had clearly been unimpressed. One German wrote, “The Lao are the laziest people in all of Asia.” Well! A tourist from Singapore wrote, “Access road to guest-house is dirty and very smelly. Also too many chickens around that call from four in the morning.”

  My favorite comment? “I want to eat Lao Food.”

  That Luang

  _____________

  It was late November, and Vientiane hadn’t seen a drop of rain for weeks. Almost overnight, it seemed, the temperature in the capital had taken a dramatic dive. Sure, it was still as mild as an early spring day in New York, but for Laos, this was freezing. The rainy season was over, and winter had officially arrived.

  When “winter” hit Vientiane, people reacted as if hell itself had frozen over. While I strolled about in my usual light summer wear, everyone else was dressed as if for a snowstorm. In the early mornings, whole families made the journey to school and work on a single motorbike, huddled together to protect against the wind, bundled up in heavy down jackets and hand-made woolen hats. There was a rush on used clothing at the outdoor markets. In only a matter of days, the entire city had come down with a cold. Outside my window, passers-by sneezed and used their bare hands to blow their noses onto the street. In this cold, who had time for tissues?

  At the office, too, everyone’s nose was running. A constant chorus of sniffles provided the background to our work, as it was considered highly impolite to blow one’s nose within a closed public place. My co-workers’ energy had dissipated, dipping to a level as low as the temperature outside. Not a few times did I arrive at work in November only to find Mon passed out on the UNDP office couch or resting her head heavily on her desk. “Koi ben wat,” she would tell me, looking up only briefly to acknowledge my presence. “I have a cold.” I heard this phrase so often around town, it had come to sound like a mantra.

  For me, on the other hand, winter in Vientiane offered something of a revelation: never before in Laos had I experienced such pleasant weather. In the evenings, I would stop by the vendor just up Chao Anou Road for a cup of hot, sweetened soy milk. Or I would come home and fix a cup of tea, curl up in my bed, and listen to the nocturnes of Chopin as I let the cool breeze blow gently in the open windows and over me. Pulling my blanket right up to the tip of my nose, I would sleep more soundly than I had in months. It was a far cry from the hot, stagnant air and sweaty sheets that normally plagued my nights. During these wintry retreats, nothing could disturb my slumber.

  It wasn’t without some hesitation, then, that I responded to the insistent call of my alarm clock at 5:30 on this November morning and hauled myself out of bed. Tiptoeing past my bedroom window on the way to the bathroom, I saw that the sun was just about to rise over Vientiane, and I hurried to get dressed. Like thousands in Vientiane this morning, I’d have to rush if I was going to make it to That Luang, the Great Stupa, in time.

  ___

  Aside from the end of the rains, the drop in temperature and the ubiquitous sniffles around town, the most important signal that summer was really over in Vientiane was the arrival of the That Luang festival, the grandest of all the city’s annual religious events. Every year, from the thirteenth through fifteenth days of the Buddhist calendar’s twelfth month, That Luang was the focus of everyone’s attention.

  Lying just northeast of the city center, the Great Stupa is the symbol of the nation and certainly the most important monument in the country—it appears on Laos’ national seal and on the logo of the NTA. The ground on which That Luang sits is itself sacred; according to legend, a breastbone of the Buddha was placed on the site by Indian missionaries in the third century B.C. Some in Vientiane would argue that the place was sacred long before then, as it had been inhabited by two naga. In any case, we know that a Khmer monastery was subsequently built there between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries.

  As I rode out of the city center, the monument appeared on the horizon to the east. Behind it, the rising sun produced a striking silhouette of the majestic stupa. It was immediately clear to me why King Setthathirath had chosen this site for the construction of That Luang back in the mid-sixteenth century. The king began work on the stupa in 1566, having just moved the capital of the Lan Xang kingdom from Luang Prabang down to Vientiane. Ultimately, he presided over the construction of four additional temples, one on each side of That Luang. Today, only two remain: to the north, Wat That Luang Neua, the residence of the supreme patriarch of Lao Buddhism, and Wat That Luang Tai to the south. The entire stupa itself was covered in gold leaf, and when I arrived, the sun was already shining brilliantly on its surface, creating a warm glow that attracted worshippers from miles around.

  I had forced myself out of bed this morning in order to witness the highlight of the annual festival: the sacred ceremony of takbaat, or offerings of the faithful to the monks. The takbaat was the primary obligation of Lao Buddhists, and their most important means of making merit. In fact, the ceremony took place every morning throughout the year, in neighborhoods all over Laos. Monks walked single-file through the streets surrounding their temple and stopped outside nearby homes to collect alms of sticky rice from local worshippers, almost always women. During Buddhist festivals, however, the faithful gathered inside the temple grounds to make their offerings.

  Well before dawn, worshippers dressed in their finest traditional clothing, had begun to gather at That Luang. Women wore silk blouses and colorful sin, while men were dressed in clean white shirts, blue pants, and checkered pa biang, the sash that is draped over the shoulder and across the chest. When I reached the entrance to That Luang, the grounds were already filled with kneeling worshippers. The only space left was reserved for the very highest authorities, including the president and the prime minister, who would soon arrive to take part in the ceremony.

  Those of us who had overslept, or just weren’t high-ranking enough, settled for a spot outside the temple walls. The area in front of the stupa entrance surrounding a statue of King Setthathirath was already filled, so I made my way through the sea of faithful to the vast esplanade beyond. More than a thousand monks, representing every temple in Vientiane and others from around the country, lined the edge of the plaza. Clad in saffron robes, they sat quietly in front of rows of large bowls, ready to accept the offerings of the faithful. The festival had been organized by the government and the Buddhist clergy, with the participation of monks from all over Laos, and even a few from Thailand and Cambodia. Throughout the week, these monks stayed in the cloisters of That Luang and in the monastic quarters of other temples in Vientiane.

  Eventually I spotted an empty space on the ground next to an elderly man and his wife. When they saw me approaching, they automatically shifted in order to make a place for me on their straw mat—a concrete expression, perhaps, of the inherent inclusiveness of Buddhism. While I clearly was no practicing Buddhist, the couple welcomed me without a second thought. Soon after I had removed my shoes and tried as best I could to fit onto the mat, the prayers began and the takbaat ceremony w
as underway.

  The soothing monotone of the monk’s voice, broadcast into the skies above the esplanade, washed over the devoted thousands below. The man and his wife seemed to know the ancient prayers by heart; as they paid homage to the Buddha and to the sacred stupa itself, they uttered the Pali words without thought. A group of young children seated on a neighboring mat weren’t nearly as familiar with the prayers. They sat in forced silence, likely wondering when it would all be over.

  Occasionally, the worshippers clasped their hands together and bowed in unison in the direction of That Luang. At the signal of the speaker, they poured a small amount of water on the ground, symbolizing the transfer of their merits to ancestors long departed. Once the prayers had ended, we rose to offer sticky rice, fruit, and sweets to as many of the monks and novices as we could. When we returned to the mat, I asked my companion why he and his wife had chosen this spot for their takbaat. Did the family have any connection to the monks nearby?

  “Oh, no. Our family has just always sat here, for nearly 15 years,” he replied. “These days, you know, the area inside the temple grounds is reserved for the Party leaders. We normal people sit out here.”

  “Has the celebration always been this big?”

  “Oh, yes. Always.”

  “Even after the communist takeover in 1975?”

  “Well, they tried to discourage religious activity for a while, mostly among Party members. But they realized they couldn’t offer anything better. Religion was just the best way. So now everyone takes part in the festivals, even the Party leaders!”

  ___

  After the offering ceremony was over, I bade farewell to my hosts and walked back to the entrance to That Luang. Finding it shut, and guarded by an uncharacteristically stern policeman who seemed highly unlikely to succumb to the charms of a naïve foreigner, I made my way around the corner of the temple walls and slipped in through a side door. In Laos, I’d discovered long before, there was always a way around the rules. The temple grounds were now nearly empty, and as a few straggling worshippers made their way out of the stupa, I set about quietly exploring this great symbol of the Lao nation. . . .

  Luckily, I had a guide. Browsing in an antique shop downtown one rainy afternoon months before, I had happened upon a few worn copies of an old, pre-revolutionary French-language periodical printed in Vientiane, the Bulletin des Amis du Royaume Lao. It had been years since anyone had looked at these copies of the long defunct Bulletin, buried as they were beneath a thick coating of dust in a dark corner of the shop. To me, however, they were treasures, filled with invaluable information about traditional Lao culture and religion. I bought them all.

  In the October 1970 issue, in between advertisements for restaurants and boutiques that still existed in Vientiane—albeit under different names—I found a description of That Luang written by a key pre-revolutionary figure, Phagna Bong Souvannavong. Born in 1906 in Vientiane to one of the city’s most powerful and well-respected merchant families, Souvannavong had been a teacher at the Lycée Pavie in the 1920s. Subsequently, he had served in all sorts of capacities in the Royal Lao Government—once as minister of education, public health, tourism, cults, fine arts, post and telecommunications. What a title! In pre-war Laos, a small country with a far smaller educated elite, this was the kind of portfolio capable leaders got stuck with. Souvannavong had a great interest in traditional Lao culture and religion, and he also occupied various leadership positions on national committees for Lao literature and art. He had a lot to say about That Luang:

  “Since our childhood,” Souvannavong wrote, “our parents have taught us to build stupas and to venerate them. This teaching has become an integral part of our lives, and it must be acknowledged that it would become obsolete if it were not among the most beautiful Lao traditions nor among our most pious Buddhist beliefs.”

  The Lao word that, or stupa, comes from the Pali word dhatucetiya, and signifies a monument containing relics of the body. Stupas originated in India just after Buddha passed away at the age of eighty; his disciples built the structures in order to protect his remains. As a result, the largest and most ancient that—like That Luang—are said to contain at least some relics of Buddha himself. Over the centuries, however, the term has come to include contemporary funeral monuments that contain the ashes of common folk. In Laos, I found that in all shapes and sizes. Recently, the Party had begun to co-opt the religious symbolism of the that, using them as commemorative monuments like the Memorial to the Unknown Soldier just west of That Luang.

  That Luang itself had three levels, and, according to Souvannavong, each represented a different stage along the path to Buddhist enlightenment. The lowest level signified the materialistic world of desires, the second, the world of appearances, and the highest, the world of nothingness: nirvana. On the third level, there were thirty miniature stupas; at the base of each was inscribed one of the ten palami, or Buddhist virtues of perfection: generosity in giving alms; morality; renunciation; wisdom; energy; patience; truth; resolution; compassion; and imperturbability. A tall order, indeed. The Great Stupa also had the appearance of a large, open lotus blossom. In the symbolism of Lao Buddhism, the lotus represented the female organ of procreation. Thus, the petals on the second terrace of That Luang gave birth to the thirty miniature stupas, and ultimately to the tower at the very pinnacle, which represented the male.

  The cloister surrounding the stupa contained a few decaying examples of classic Lao and Khmer sculpture. One of the broken statues I found lying on the ground was an image of the Khmer king, Jayavarman VII, who had constructed much of the Angkor complex in Cambodia. The image had been discovered in 1951 lying forgotten in the forests surrounding That Luang. The cloister walls were pierced by a series of tiny windows, added during the reign of Vientiane’s King Anouvong in the early nineteenth century as a defense against attack. They were of little use during subsequent Siamese and Chinese invasions of the city—not to mention an 1896 lightning strike—which left the Great Stupa in ruins.

  The first restoration work on That Luang began in 1909, but serious reconstruction wasn’t undertaken until the French oversaw a project in the early 1930s. Mr. Souvannavong, however, wasn’t sure that the French restoration had been faithful to the original monument. According to Buddhist tradition, the world is divided into two distinct zones: the east is the zone of illumination, while the west is the zone of ignorance. As a result, important Buddhist images and monuments invariably faced the east. Originally, That Luang faced east as well, away from Vientiane, but the restoration authorities reversed the layout of the temple grounds. Today, the main entrance is through the western wall, and the doors face the city center. To the French, who had plans for a grand avenue leading from That Luang into town, it had just made more sense for the entrance to face Vientiane.

  On all four of the stupa’s sides sat a prayer pavilion. Inside of each structure I found an ancient stele on which was inscribed a Pali prayer in honor of That Luang. It read: “Homage to Buddha, who is Arhat [one who has considered the true nature of things and who has achieved nirvana] and who has reached enlightenment. They came from the east, five Arhat, the principal of which was Phra Maha Kassapa, and deposed the bones in this venerable stupa. I tilt my head to pray and to remain faithful forever.”

  As I made my way around the stupa, pondering the significance of these words, I realized that each pavilion contained a set of exactly 12 stairs—except for the one along the western edge. It had only 11, and provided no access to the first terrace. In their zeal to civilize, the French had made an obvious error. Souvannavong was right: the West was the zone of ignorance, after all.

  Lost in exploration, I had failed to notice that I was now the only one left inside the temple. The sight of an approaching policeman jolted me out of my reverie and, before he had a chance to kick me out, I made a quick exit through the south side of the cloister. Just outside the doors, along the edge of the temple walls, women sat on the ground behind small
stalls selling treats to the steady stream of celebrants. Wherever I looked I found delicacies like pingkai, grilled chicken on wooden skewers, and khaolaam, sticky rice flavored with coconut milk and cooked in bamboo. I bought a stick of khaolaam and, munching on this incredibly tasty snack, strolled back over to the esplanade, where a trade fair held annually in conjunction with the That Luang festival was already in full swing.

  Around the edge of the plaza, vast billboards extolling the virtues of brand-name products like Pepsodent, Pepsi, and Marlboro towered over the monks, who remained seated to accept offerings from latecomers. Private businesses, foreign governments, and international organizations had erected wooden booths to promote their products and programs. Scattered throughout the area, far less elaborate stalls sold imported products from Thailand, China, and Vietnam. On their way home from the takbaat ceremony, revelers stocked up on plastic wallets, tennis shoes, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Families delighted in carnival games like bingo, darts, and a frighteningly rickety merry-go-round. Children ran through the streets shooting at one another with newly purchased cap guns. How far off the path to enlightenment were these kids veering? I wondered.

  This was a religious festival, but to me it felt more like an old-fashioned state fair. Just past the daredevil motorbike extravaganza sponsored by Marlboro, I happened upon a small, dimly-lit tent that turned out to be That Luang’s very own House of the Weird. Inside, glass cases held two-headed cows and gigantic serpents embalmed in formaldehyde. A live five-footed pig lay on the ground, subject to continual pestering and prodding. When a severely overweight Thai tourist walked in, displacing half the crowd, he was treated like a freak himself, attracting more attention than the actual exhibit. People had come to That Luang to worship, yes, but also to gawk. The event was a perfect marriage of the sacred and profane, a deeply religious occasion that no one took too seriously.