Shout Out #14
Trip Start
Jun 05, 2006
1
16
41
Trip End
Ongoing
Vientiane,
Lao Peoples Dem Rep
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The bus station is 7 kilometers out of Vientiane. While Shawn and I and the rest of the tourists were negotiating prices with the tuk-tuk drivers, the bus emplyees began unloading the miscellaneous cargo. One of them fell from the roof of the bus
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. It was a good 3 meter drop to solid concrete, he landed on his side with a deep thud- out cold. A friend of his took the highly unrecommended action of picking him up by the armpits and giving him a good shake. It was evident that he needed much more than a good shake to come around. They took him back on the bus by the feet and armpits and raced off. Shawn and I debated whether it was a departure in pursuit of assistance, or in flight from unwanted legal attention concerning the cargo. Vientiane is a quiet capital city. Most foreigners treat it as a travel hub en route to other destinations. I found the sleepiness to be quite enticing. We stayed a couple days in order to celebrate the New Year. A German girl we met in Halang Bay had told us the story from a newspaper article she read in Laos about the importance of operating on "Foreigner's Time". She laughed when a tour guide took a phone call mid-tour and told the person, "Yes, I'm on Foreigner's Time". Happy New Year for Laos is in April so all celebrations in December were celebrations of Foreigner's Time. There were many to choose from too. We opted for the All-you-can-eat-and/or-drink affair sponsored by several tourist restaurants and travel agencies.
The buffet began promptly at 8, the drinking began long before we had arrived. Live bands playing western pop tunes and a runway fashion show complemented the atmosphere typical of western New Year's parties
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. Five minutes prior to midnight, sparklers were passed around to be lit for the countdown...which started two minutes early. More than one western girl was frustrated by the sight of their kisses going to Laos women. Vang Vien is a small town further up the Mekong. With 18 hour daily doses of 'Friends' re-runs and an abundance of riverside bars, it has fully accomodated the influx of party backpackers in the last five years. Some Laos village culture exists, but for the most part, Vang Vien is a budget resort. Rock climbing was my favorite experience, especially with the finishing touch of a huge rope-swing over the river. We took a peek at the night life and a peek in some of the nearby caves before Shawn had to head back to Vientiane on his way to Sydney.
Two hundred kilometers- seven hours. The bus made it to Luang Prabang in little over the speed of a school zone in the United States. In the north, travel is slow. All you can do is enjoy the scenery. Looking back, this was the best bus ride I had in the whole country. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so bothered had I known what the future had in store. In the past, the road was too dangerous to travel. Five years ago, Hmong rebels controlled that stretch of highway, still fighting in resistance to "The Party", but the connection between Vientiane and Luang Prabang is far too valuable to leave in the hands of a rebel force
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. I'm not sure how control was shifted. With many world heritage sights, Luang Prabang is widely regarded as the gem of Laos. It draws wealthy and budget travellers alike. Similar to Vang Vien, the tourism has altered the cultural side of life in the city, but in a more subtle way. The morning alms procession pleases many foreign cameras each day and the nightly market has a broad array of "Authentic Laos" crafts. After five months in Asia, spending time with westerners appealed to me much less than it once had. Shawn's visit and having met an American named Stephen in Vang Vien helped to open my mind to talking with more travellers. It was nice having a friend around and Stephen knew how to travel- how to be free. The U.S. is founded on the idea of freedom but actually living free is harder than people think. The total freedom of life on the road can be frightening. I'm still learning how to live free. Stephen is a natural. He flew to St. Petersberg, Russia and made it the rest of the way by land...a feat I highly respect and envy. Luang Prabang proved to be a good place to open up to some western company.
One woman from the UK was down to $200 with a month of travel left. A Canadian man was in town on business, taking photos for Lonely Planet. An Israeli shared my love of writing, music, and reading- she's a poet, singer, and musician. One day I went to the waterfalls, another at the temples, always with someone new and interesting. On my last night in town, I even bumped into a Swedish woman I met in Australia. After so many months filled with such a variety of days, it felt like seeing someone from a different life.
For the boys who can't afford school, the temples provide much opportunity
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. Kids from all areas go to the temples for the free education, food, and accomodation given to novices studying under the monks. Watching a group of chanting novices is like watching a group of kids in a classroom with a lenient teacher. Some kids sit up front, focused and leading the chant. Others sit in back and contribute to the chant in between pranks and jokes. I've always preferred backstage humor over the big show. When I wanted to see more than the big sights I took a rented bike into a village outside the town. My first stop was at the temple. As I dismounted the bike, voices came down from somewhere above. I couldn't place them. God? Shrouded in the branches of a tree ten meters up, a novice joked with a friend while they picked and ate tamarind fruit. Another novice on the ground called up when he wanted a snack, he had them toss me a couple pods as well. We couldn't talk much but their demeaner had me thinking they were back row chanters.
Further into the village I came across several blacksmiths working with their wives in front of their wooden homes. The women tended the fire and the raw pieces of metal while the man pounded them into shape- small machete-like blades commonly used in Laos. Their homes all had satellite dishes too.
The overwhelming sense that everything's right
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. It hit me midway through the 9 hour boatride to Nong Khiaw. The cramped boat went through glassy waters that reflected the greens of the jungled mountains, rapids, and shrubs on little islands that cast a sweet smell over the whole river. It went by riverside villages with naked kids splashing in the water who'd wave as we passed. We'd wave, then they'd wave, then we'd wave again, and nobody knew when to stop. It went past women and men bathing in the river. In some of the rocks near the rapids, our boat went past bamboo contraptions connected to a generator- electricity for the satellite dishes and lights in the homes. Sitting on a mini-stool in a cramped boat, I was overwhelmed. It's easy to be angered or frustrated by any number of situations in the world. It's easy to say "things" should be different, or, you should be... There're typically a lot of 'shoulds' pointed at people other than ourselves. To have the feeling slap you in the face, that nothing is lesser or greater than perfect, IN ANY GIVEN MOMENT- to have the sense that everything is right- can be overwhelming. I have arrived. The Mekong and Nam Ou rivers transported me from a city with people driving electric motor-bikes to a village with minimal electricity- whatever the rapids churn up. The nights are cold this far to the north. A fog hangs over the valley each morning, ultimately burned off by the sun creeping over the hills, sometime mid-morning. Bamboo huts perched on the upper slopes of the riverbank are the best accomodation. Our boat docked by several women and girls bathing in the river with cloth sarongs tied across their chests. A bridge spans the river for trucks coming north from Vientiane and Luang Prabang, veering to the east through the village, ultimately ending at the Vietnam border a couple hundred kilometers away. Without the bridge, the village would only sit on one side of the river
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. I have arrived but I don't know where I am. My accomodation that night was a basic room in a basic guesthouse near the boat docks. After sharing dinner and travel tales with a few other backpackers I sat in bed with my notebook to write by the light of my candle lantern- my ipod drowned out the sound of roosters and club music coming from somewhere not nearby. The incongruency was striking. I fell asleep thinking the other side of the river might be more pleasant the next night.
There was a spot with a hot shower and so I took it. At $3, the cost was twice what I had paid the prior night. The common shower had a great view of the restaurant, the restaurant had a great view of me in the hot water with a smile on my face.
Over breakfast I met a group of seven backpackers reminiscent of 'The Outsiders'; all from different countries and all travelling alone until they formed the posse. They mentioned a hike to a nearby waterfall so I joined in- #8 from the U.S. The hike was actually a four kilometer walk down the road to a cluster of rocks and concrete built across a stream. The primary discussion was their eagerness to buy machetes and throwing stars for a jungle trek/camping outing planned for the next day. They had also discovered the source of the club music from the prior night. It was a funeral party for a villager who had died at a relatively young age. I pictured them crashing the party with glow sticks and lolly pops, and it would have actually been somewhat in line with the mood. The villagers welcomed them warmly.
In the pool beneath the waterfall, two little boys with speedos and 70's era dive masks ducked under the surface and speared fish with bamboo guns using surgical rubber to shoot metal prongs
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. The finger sized fish were put in a basket tied around their waste. Girls hauled buckets of river rock from the stream to a nearby construction site- two buckets balanced over their shoulder with a bamboo rod. The roadless village of Muong Noi was an hour further upriver, only accessible by boat. Again my accomodation had no electricity. The river proved to be a better option than the cold shower in the dingy shared bathroom. During the day the villagers attended to their duties according to sex. Men did construction work, fished, and attended their restaurants or guesthouses. Women and girls gathered riverweed for food, attended food stands or shops, and looked after the home. At night, big groups would gather around the one or two televisions showing Thai dramas via satellite.
One afternoon a boat of fishermen, merry on Laos Lau (whiskey), pulled in singing songs. As they rambled up the hill a couple men had their arms around one particular man in uniform, possibly the village chief. Everytime they passed a foreigner they pointed to the man and gave a thumbs up and a nod of the head. "This guy. This guy here, he's alright in my book."
My daytime activities varied from swimming in the river or small streams, hiking to nearby villages, canoeing, or swimming deep in a cave
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. Chris, a German guy who's English was so strikingly Aussie I hardly identified him as German, Rezna, a Czech girl living in China, and a couple other girls kept me company. At night I put much time into the traditional herbal sauna and enjoying the total darkness when the lights went off at ten. Though remote, the influx of travellers has altered life in the village. The wealthiest villagers run guesthouses or restaurants. Everyday, foreigners with foreign clothes, shoes, and electronics stroll through the main street in awe of a place that still lives so simply. I was often uncertain about whether most of the residents enjoyed the foreign presence.
Once I made it back to Nong Khiaw, I faced the rough journey east, a direction few foreigners travel. The transport went in stages. First was by a truck with bench seats in back covered by a metal roof for carrying loads. They're called something similar to "sawntaow". As the load and passenger count steadily increased, and judging by the other trucks that came and went, the ride would be cramped. Sawntaow operaters move on Laos time. A larger truck, fully loaded with passengers and goods, sat in the sun while the driver sat in the shade talking with a friend. I wasn't about to climb into the little cage until the engine was going and the wheels were moving.
The 30 kilometer journey took 1 1/2 hours which I spent happily riding on the bumper, clinging to the roof frame; much preferred to the sardine benches in the overstuffed shell. Children waved and said "Hell-ooo" as we rode thru all the little villages. I could also take in the great mountain scenery along the way. The only drawback was the old lady who frequently stuck her head out the side to vomit
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. I had to watch, then duck aside to avoid sprayback. The first leg ended in Vieng Khong, a nice village built on the banks of a river. The two other backpackers on the truck were also looking to continue onward. It didn't take long to learn that the next bus was due in another 14 hours, at 2am- the man who informed us conveniently had a guesthouse where we could keep our bags, sleep, and he'd wake us for the bus. I roamed with the English guy, past an eagle chained to a perch, down to the river, back into town, to a pool table under a trellis. As we played a few games, the balls gathering along one rail, a cluster of kids huddled over us watching how foreigners got by with less than 15 balls. They certainly got a kick out of our methods.
Our bellies rumbled and the Brit recommended we "go for a womble". It took us a couple kilometers, past several women weaving on looms beneath their stilted homes, to the door of a restaurant attached to the other guesthouse in town. The owner had to consult with his wife to see if they had any vegetables for fried noodles and veggies. She had lettuce and something else. The vegetable supply is seasonal and most everything was out of season. We then learned about the heated rivalry between him and the other guesthouse owner. Every sign this man put up by the bus station, the other man took down. Rather than bicker, he simply focuses on being a good man, knowing that whatever he earns, he earns honestly
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. "Look, you guys walk by and eat here. People stay there and eat here." Upon learning I was American he had a few things to say about politics. "Socialism is good in theory but keeps people poor. Your country is rich but George Bush no good. People who like rockets (bombs) should eat them." The knock came at 2:30. "The bus is waiting." We grabbed our things and hustled out the door. My greeting was the stench of death and cigarettes and an Israeli sitting in the aisle saying I should think twice. Having little option, I nestled into a spot in the aisle sitting on some big metal tube in a bag, my knees jammed under my chin. I tilted my head down and closed my eyes to focus on not going berserk, and found the source of the stench. The man in the seat next to me had taken his shoes off. I lifted my head and took in the scene. In the back of the bus two motorbikes sat in the aisle with girls sitting on the seats. The whole aisle was full and we kept stopping to let more people on. At maximum capacity people were standing in the doorway and had to shuffle around to allow the door to swing open. A bus employee crawled past me, coming from the back, scrambled across the two girls in the front seat, climbed out the window, and onto the roof so he could smoke while the bus was moving. At a stop he crawled down and perched in the window, sitting right in the girl's faces, still smoking, and started to talk loudly to the driver. It was past 4am and an English man told him to "shut his fucking trap". My friend the Brit and I were both pleased it was only a 4 1/2 hour trip. For the Israeli and his fiance it was a 10 hour affair.
After a couple more brutal rides I made it to Phonsavon. The U.S. left some nasty fingerprints in Southeast Asia during and after the war in Vietnam
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. In Laos, the fingerprints are especially fatal. Per capita, no other nation has been as heavily bombed as Laos. Both Vietnam and the U.S. broke international regulations by extending the fighting into Laos. The U.S. dropped $3 million worth of bombs per day on Laos- $10 billion over 9 years. Since then, unexploded bombs (UXO) have killed or maimed hundreds of thousands of Laotians- most often children. Vast stretches of land are considered unusable due to the danger of triggering explosions from UXO. Much of the land around Phonsavon contains latent devices. It also contains the Plane of Jars, huge stone jars from an unknown origin. The field has certain magnetic properties and attracts a bit of lightning. Theories about the jars relate to the magnetic properties and how ancient societies may have revered the area. The bomb craters scattered throughout the plane, at least the ones I could see from the UXO safe pathway, caught more of my attention. After dinner the men all sucked food from between their teeth in a way that reminded me of Hollywood mafiosos considering the fate of someone who stole money from the syndicate. They may have noticed me watching because a few of them picked up toothpicks, held a hand in front of their mouth, and began picking. The hand shield is common Laos dinner manners. At the table specific rules of etiquette exist, away from the table most of the rules vanish
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. Men and women commonly grind their throats, work up some phlem, and spit. It's so common I was often woken by the sound of people having their morning spit- coughs and farmer's blows are sometimes included. My British friend gave it a try and said a man looked at him with glee when he coughed something up on the street. She was guilty. Regardless of what she said, she was guilty. Really, I was the offender, but it wasn't a situation based on reality. I met Yai over dinner at the restaurant in which she works.
Going back to Vientiane hadn't been my original plan but it proved to be the best route for getting south from Phonsavon. The chaotic roads of the north were also starting to affect my sanity. Since I was in town, I figured I'd start looking into getting an India visa. Yai offered to give me a lift to the embassy, then to some sights. At an intersection, a copper whistled and pointed for her to come by the stand.
Five policemen sat in a pen on the corner of the intersection and whistled at whichever violaters they desired. He whistled at Yai because I wasn't wearing a helmet but the true offense was Riding With A Foreigner (RWAF). In Laos, most offenses are unwritten; unwritten offenses are mostly severe. Fortunately, this was not a severe unwritten offense
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. Most other motorbike drivers passed by helmetless and the other four officers were too busy to notice. It takes effort to look important in front of those they've snagged. I watched the helmetless go by and it soon became important for them to flag down a few others while we were there, just to keep up the facade. Their presence is merely a message. "We are here and you are being watched." Whether they stopped anyone or not matters little.
With Yai they thought they knew the story. An exceptionally charming white guy and a Laos girl, it couldn't be more clear. When your entire job is a facade, facades are the easiest to judge. It didn't matter one way or another that they were incorrect in their presumptions, it came down to money. I tried to pay her fine right there. Maintaining the facade, he forced us to go to a station where the fine could officially be paid. When Yai returned with the receipt she could get her license back.
Aside from the highly decorated building in the heart of the tourist area, the stations were all non-descript buildings tucked away in secluded neighborhoods. On the third attempt we found the correct building, with no signage indicating it as a police hideaway. The man behind the desk lectured her for not wearing the traditional ankle-length skirt, the proper attire for a woman in a government facility
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. He took her papers and handed them to a second man berating a Vietnamese couple for Not Stopping Upon Hearing The Whistle Of Authority (NSUHTWOA). The man took the papers and signed his name without looking down or skipping a beat in his lecture; inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke with the look of annoyance superior officers use when asked to perform petty duties. Raises will only be given to those who have this look mastered. The ranking policeman handed the papers back, again without looking or pausing in speech. The first officer handed them to me, the man, and pointed us to the payment officer. By the time we made it back to the roadside post, it was empty. After a rough morning on the streets, they had crawled back to one of the unmarked hideouts. I knew they were there somewhere. Yai is from a rural area in the south. She came to Vientiane to go to school at the national university. She's 23 and like many unmarried girls her age, she's never had a boyfriend. Laos is a traditional country and the people from the rural areas tend to be the most traditional. She knew what everyone thought when we went places. It's just part of life. She told me it didn't bother her, but she also refused to eat at tourist restaurants or go in any tourist clubs- even just to get her friend, another local girl from a remote village.
Being traditional, Yai also gave me a lesson in table manners
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. Food is to be ladled in small portions onto the plate. With rice dishes, place your spoon on the plate and use the fork to push rice onto the spoon. Eat from the spoon by putting the front straight into your mouth with your fingers also pointed straight at your mouth. Do not dig in with the side of your spoon and shovel it into your mouth the way I always do once I've dumped all the food onto my eating plate. Feet are to be flat on the floor, not used to point across the river as I had just done. Blowing of nose or performing the streetside spitting routine is out of the question. The specifics of eating noodles with chopsticks was in an advanced course I never attended. The trip south took me through some small cities and out to a highly remote village called Sepon. Sepon sits 4 kilometers away from where it once existed, before the war. Aside from some small ruins, Sepon was totally destroyed. I went to see the ruins.
"Where you go?" I had just walked by a little gathering at the local temple and turned to go back to the bomb craters and wall fragments of the old bank on my way out to the main road.
"Ban Dong", I replied. "Long way." My English had started to resemble the broken manner spoken by many Asians, even when I spoke to westerners
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. He turned to his friends, said something in Lao, and they all started laughing. I couldn't figure out what was so funny. A few minutes later I had a theory. I had just turned back on the dead-end road where the temple sits, to go the wrong direction on the wrong road to a place 20 kilometers away. Not to mention the confusion between the 'L' and 'R' sound with most Asian tongues. I had a long way to go if I was going the rong way. A truck picked me up on the main road and dropped me off close to the intersection with the road that was once the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I helped a couple women unload the heavy bags of rusty metal they had gathered. A mechanic shop sits on the trail close to the intersection. An older man standing by the shop wasn't too excited to hear I was American but he pointed me in the direction of one of the tanks abandoned during combat anyway. The VietCong overpowered the South Army in a conflict at Ban Dong; two American tanks were left behind in the retreat. Local authorities kept the metal scrappers from hauling away the remnants. They sit where they were left- now half buried in soil, still pointing East.
Ban Dong wasn't much to speak of. On my way out of town after a brief visit, I saw two girls heading off on bicycle with a metal detecter. I could only think of the amount of UXO still scattered around the country and hoped they knew the land they were about to scour for military remnants
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. The shower in my guesthouse was shared by all the guests. I had to walk out wearing clothes, carrying my towel and shower paraphernalia. The room had no hooks or ledges I could use to store away all this stuff while showering- having anything touch the floor was out of the question. With some delicate engineering I managed to get situated for a cold trickling shower. The walls of my room were so thin I fell asleep to the sound of my neighbor eating something crucnchy, and awoke to the sound of the couple on the other side whispering something in Lao. These facilities weren't uncommon but I was starting to feel travel weary. Getting off the beaten track involves a certain amount of sacrifice I was no longer interested in making.
The bus to Savannaket was late. A group of students from the English school waited with me, using the opportunity to practice. One-by-one they came up and asked the same questions- "Hello, how are you?, Where are you from?, How old are you? One-by-one, I gave the same string of responses, trying to be polite while wondering when the bus was going to rescue me. It arrived packed to overflowing and somehow managed to squeeze the 8 or so students inside. Buses being the primary source of my weariness, I opted to waive down a truck instead. I spent most of the ride sitting in thought with my eyes closed
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. When I finally opened my eyes at one of the stops a kid looked at me- "Hello, how are you?" "Okay. Are you a student at the English school in Savannaket?"
Savannaket to Pakse is around 200 kilometers of smooth asphalt roads- travel is typically much nicer in the south. A foolish sense of hope crept in as the bus seats filled and the one next to me remained empty. It was finally filled by the last lady to sit down- with her 2 daughters. She tied a bag containing a roast duck to the seat in front of us. 1/2 hour after the bus left, we only made it a couple kilometers to the edge of town, the aisle was full of people, and the head and neck of the duck were gone. Four hours later, the bus was 100 kilometers out of town, about twice its capacity (one person in the aisle for every one in a seat- four seats to a row), and the daughter now sharing my seat just vomited her portion of the duck. With every passenger the man let on- quickly taking the fare with a smile- I wanted to scream. When my fury targeted the woman with her two girls, I had to step out of it. Here was a woman sitting next to a smelly backpacker- in the same miserable conditions- on her way to a Buddhist festival, trying take care of two sweet girls. This thought alone helped me from exploding during the remainder of the ride- I was past my tolerance for Laos bus rides
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. Phonsalin is 27 and owns a massage parlor in Pakse. She has also worked for the UN's Youth Summit. In Laos, the program taught sex education to villagers in remote areas of Laos. They conducted interviews and surveys, provided information to people with strong traditional beliefs, and tried to educate poor women about the cost of raising children. She went with me to Si Pan Don (4,000 Islands) and brought one of her employees, a girl whose parents never took care of her as she grew up in a rural village . The girls always ducked her head when she walked by me, as if she were too inferior to cross my plane of sight.
While relaxing in hammocks hung on the porch of our joining bungalows, she told me about some of the villages she visited with the UN. In one, they saw a woman struggling to carry water over her shoulder with a bamboo pole. She was exhausted and incredibly weak so a UN worker carried it for her and asked about her situation. She had recently given birth and according to custom, she was on a strictly rice diet. Also according to custom, as the woman, it was her duty to perform the household chores. Phonsalin and the UN team sat with her husband and tried to explain the health needs of a woman after giving birth. They suggested he help with the work, give her some rest, and make her some food of substance to help her regain strength. As an outside authority, he let Phonsalin speak, but hearing suggestions from a woman was highly uncomfortable. I'm not sure whether the UN or the satellite dishes came first, but their messages tend to coincide. Some are beneficial and some may destroy much of what makes Laos special.
In many ways Phonsalin is not traditional. Running a business and having experience with an international organization contributed much toward that
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. In other ways she still has the same habits as the women she educated. Si Pan Don is an incredible part of the Mekong, reaching a peak width of 10 kilometers. Hundreds (not 4000) of islands are scattered throughout broad, swirling channels of water. Freshwater dolphins and enormous dragon-like creatures call Si Pan Don's waters home. By the time I made it to this lazy spot on the south end of Laos, I had no agenda aside from some quality hammock time. Phonsalin had some sights she wanted to see, sights I didn't mind seeing either. The problem was that Laos women don't tell a man what they want. After the story about the Youth Council, I couldn't believe she wouldn't just say what was on her mind. It began with the infamous question, What do you want to do? "Well, this hammock is treating me pretty well. What are you wanting to see?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" "I really don't care. Why don't we go to the waterfall?" I'd either have to suggest something or continue going in circles. If my guess was correct, she'd agree and then make several suggestions about what we could do afterward. Somehow, she was then free to open up. "After that we can see the French supply train and then you can teach me to swim." The waterfall was an incredible sight. Several channels of the river collided in a churning, multi-tiered monster, ultimately rushing down the rocky canyon it carved through thousands of years. In the rainy season some of the channels are full when they reach the falls
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. It was amazing...aside from the agonizing disaster of my camera's death that morning. It was one of the most beautiful places I've seen in Asia and I have no evidence. When we had our fill, Phonsalin turned and asked, "What do you want to do now?" Si Pan Dan is another area tourism has highly impacted. I can't fault the economic benefits gained by these villages. The people need money. I wonder about the impact of foreigners coming to buy drugs and go to bars built just for them. Opium is already a large problem in the far north- problems not fully attributed to tourists though. The UN is also working to help in their way. They try to educate the people and look to raise the standard of living, but they also buy large color printers for government offices that can't afford to get replacement ink cartridges. Officials with large salaries can drive Land Rovers to villages where the people aren't going to shoot them. The taxes on an imported Land Rover also drive the cost to about twice what they're worth in other countries. Laos loves the UN and the UN loves Laos. In many cases, it's a mutually beneficial agreement of near stalemate.
Only 2% of the population belongs to The Party. Much of the country is comprised of remote villages with an almost subsistence existence- villages with much tradition. The international markets mean very little to the mass of Laotians
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. They were never poor until globalization (something I consider to be a healthy trend) and the modernizing forces took off. A negative by-product is that in places like Laos, a very small group controls the fate of people from a diverse range of villages who've been fenced by invisible borderlines and treated as a conglomerate. The land on which they depend is diced up by the wealthy, used for its resources, and is now filled with lethal by-products of a war they cared little about. Villagers trained by the U.S. to defend against the Vietnamese forces are still being hauled away by The Party; an offshoot of Vietnam's Party.The influx of tourism, Thai television, and international aid organizations delivers a clear message- these are all the things you don't have and everybody should have these things. The globalization of the world is an astounding situation with plenty of opportunities but much can be lost when several cultures with strong traditions aren't allowed to live as they always have, on the land that was once theirs. Many of the traditions may not fully serve a healthy life but many traditions strengthen the communities. What happens to the village economy when imported Chinese blades replace the husband and wife teams working from their homes outside Luang Prabang? The future is seen in the Thai TV shows. Shows about people working long hours in factories for a few dollars a day and wealthy business owners with expensive clothes. Thailand is about 20 years ahead of Laos. If Laos follows the Thai lead, the collapsed village economy will give way to the rapid growth of Vientiane, where villagers will flock to the factories. Many Laos refugees have already left for Thailand.
