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Published February 20th in The Livingston Enterprise 

Learning to not sweat money in Laos

For The Enterprise by Jim Durfey 

We set up camp far off the main road, behind a copse of trees.  In the afternoon light shadows lengthened into distorted reflections.  Pinks and oranges on the Western horizon slid slowly into the colorless light of dusk.  The moon did not rise.  Stars peeked out of the paling sky.  Darkness cloaked the fields and trees, unmolested by cities or even a single house.  As night came, the sky exploded in stars.  A huge meteor plunged through the atmosphere, so close I mistook it for a firework.  It burned brightly with a long tale until it broke into a few sparks and skipped into nothingness.

We had been in Laos for one week, and the natural environment continued to stun us.  Upon crossing the border with Vietnam, we entered old growth forests.  Through 2,500 miles of biking through two countries, we’d never seen anything like it.  Trees of incredible girth sprung up dozens of feet above the canopy.  Walking about their base required several moments.  When we stopped to explore the forest, we saw walls of tree trunks oozing up rock faces, forcing nubbins of stump and bark into every nook and cranny, searching for purchase.  Clear streams rushed crisply through untouched forests and under wooden bridges, which we crossed carefully.

In the seventies, during the Vietnam War, the U.S. dropped more bombs on Lao than had been dropped during the entirety of World War Two.  The bombing destroyed much of the infrastructure, and scattered fighting between political factions preceded poor economic policy.  As a result, Laos has only recently begun to develop, and lags significantly behind Vietnam and China.  Cities are few and far between, and electricity and running water remain luxuries for most Lao.

Instead of homes made of concrete and brick, most Lao homes are made of wood, and raised on stilts.  Woven grass roofs shelter the structures from summer monsoons.  We had biked so far south that we escaped the seasons.  While winter chilled Livingston, the temperature in Laos often hit eighty-five by mid-morning and kept climbing.  The huts past which we pedaled all had well-ventilated, un-walled areas for good reason.  From here, lounging villagers tossed the occasional Sabaidee (Lao for “Hello”) at us.  As I waxed nostalgic thinking of winter camping in the Absaroka’s, we biked through the steaming midday, drenched in sweat.  Villagers often followed their friendly “Hellos” with chuckles.  After a few days, we saw the mirth in our unreasonable zeal to bike in such heat.  Thenceforth, after noon we joined the villagers in the shade until the light softened in late afternoon.

Unlike the governments in China and Vietnam, the Lao communists never effectively suppressed religion.  Temples sparkle out of the countryside and towns all host several.  I sought shelter amongst the trees of one temple in Savannakhet, Laos’s second largest city.  A young monk wearing the bright-orange robes of Southeast Asian Buddhist monks approached me with quiet confidence.  Monk Aek, as he called himself, learned English by studying out of a book.  Smiling with the excitement of the intellectual curious, Monk Aek eagerly propelled our conversation when I ran out of questions.  “My village is countryside.  We have no money to go to school, so I become a monk,” he explained when I asked why he had joined the monastery.

Like many Lao families, Monk Aek’s parents could not afford to send him to school.  Convinced he wanted to learn nonetheless, he joined a temple near his home when he was 10.  Although Buddhist monks usually restrict their studies to scriptures, they have time and resources to study other subjects.  Consequently, joining a monastery as a novice remains a good and sometimes the only option available for boys who desire an education but cannot afford normal schools.

Many other people we met in Lao spoke English.  However, language still remained a challenge.  Because of the large distances between towns, we often bought dinners we could eat while camping.  I once purchased a string of mysterious packets wrapped in banana leaves.  Using gestures, I asked the vendor if the contents were edible.  Assured, I ate two of the packets at dinner.  They had an odd texture, but great flavor.  My more skeptical friends refrained from partaking until they had asked our host for the night.  “That’s raw pork,” he said, “you should cook it first.”

Whether they possess English skills or not, the Lao smile infectiously and make visitors feel welcome.  As we biked along, we became accustomed to the enthusiastic greetings of children.  Often, we heard choruses of voices, but could never see the callers.  Occasionally we would look everywhere, only to finally look up and find children perched in the upper boughs of a tree, waving wildly at us.  Often the most humbly attired children and the adults in the simplest houses proved most welcoming.

Despite their lack of material possessions, the Lao remain happy.  Perhaps because they are unaware of the joys of mortgages, car payments, power bills, and schedules, they see no reason not to smile in the face of their deprivation from these luxuries.

Money provides opportunity.  Monk Aek certainly appreciates this notion.  However, since so many people without it seem to be so happy, I begin to wonder if I value money too highly.  When I work in the states, I work every day, no matter how hot it is or how sick I am.  Lost hours mean lost money.  In Laos, if people are tired, if the weather is unsuitable, they’ll take a break.  If something interesting bikes down the road, they’ll take time to examine it.  Their focus is not nearly as myopic as mine.  Time lost at work means more time to spend in contemplation or with family.

When viewing the satisfied smiles of people without anything other than their health and their clean environment, it’s difficult to maintain that a house full of stuff that doesn’t give one any happiness was worth the work it took to get.  I have already lived an incredibly blessed life, full of opportunities of which most of the world’s people can only dream.  For the moment, I will appreciate what I do have: a great family, a view of the stars at night, and the ability to buy food that fills me and is cooked—most of the time.

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 9th, 2008 at 9:24 am and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.