Letting go

Friday was my last day at KPL News, which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that it was decided just this week that the new volunteer who is coming to take my place has been pulled out of the job and will now be choosing another job. Ridiculous- and partly my fault. But we all know how much I’ve been whinging about it all of late. There’s no other way- I couldn’t possibly stay there another day.
Anyway, this was all compounded by the very touching ceremony they had for me on Friday- the full baci, a certificate from the Ministry of Information and Culture, gifts, the works. And for what? For someone who has basically abandoned them because I feel I can do something better. No, responding to basic need is no longer enough for Sally. No, I’m apparently too good to be correcting illegible English all day. Which is why I’ve left.
Anyway, they all tied dozens of white strings around my wrists to wish me luck. You’re supposed to leave these on for three days. You can slip them off or untie them if you must, but you can’t, under any circumstances, cut them with scissors, or a knife. I’ve mentioned before in a previous post how compelled one feels here to follow these rituals to the letter, just in case. Usually, it’s not a problem, I leave the strings on for the three days and then take them all off.
But since I got them on Friday, they’ve all been untying themselves and dropping off, one by one, with no help from me.
I think that’s symbolic, don’t you?

Clean living
Anyway, I’ve been sooo earnest of late- going to the gym, eating porridge, trawling through Katharine Graham’s Personal History and going to bed early. It’s good, really, and I sure made up for it over the weekend of debauchery that was last weekend.
I really think it’s about time I rewarded myself- but then I say that and realise that I reward myself constantly. Treats around every corner, here. A new stripey top from the Chinese Market. Finally, a copy of The Devil Wears Prada on DVD. Several hours at the sauna last weekend. Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate that Tom brought back from home.
Not to mention HBO- the most dangerous channel ever. Every movie I would never consider paying for in any way but have always sort of wanted to see is on.
[I blame Parul, and old friend I’ve been emailing of late. Parul and I shared an apartment when I lived in Montreal in 2000-2001. Parul, an Indian American with several tattoos, is a few years younger than me and probably one of the most glamorous people I know- a chain-smoking Penelope Cruz-lookalike who could churn out perfect papers three hours before they were due, and pick any old garment off the stinky floor of her stinky room and look jaw-dropping. She used to sleep a lot, and I would get home from classes and perch on the end of her bed smoking cigarettes.
We basically spent the long Quebec winter watching movies. That is, everything we could find, from High Fidelity to Love Story, from Fatal Attraction to Kicking and Screaming. We made friends with the Video Store Guys, who always cancelled our fines.
Anyway, I was already a film buff before that- I was, after all, doing film studies at McGill- but I think that winter just made me hungry for all of them, everything. Happy Gilmore and Bertolucci’s The Conformist. Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion and Sophie’s Choice.
I think my penchant for high and low came into its own right there.
Parul lives in New York now- of course she got into Columbia. There are many miles between Manhattan and Vientiane.]

There’s a mouse in the house
Continuing with the whacky animal theme, I surprised an enormous mouse late last Friday trying to gnaw its way out of the small downstairs storeroom. It didn’t even really stop when it saw me, and didn’t try to get away, either, stupid mouse.
Still, it probably didn’t deserve to be bludgeoned to death the next morning by the Island ("Not crazy- diligent"), wielding a roll of gladwrap.
But I’m told that’s Lao style.
Also, at the time of writing, there is a black-and-white cat lying outside our gate that is slowly dying, and I don’t know what to do about it.
I hope it’s not avian influenza.

Holy candles and beer
I love a good street festival- there’s something so warming about seeing hoards of people ambling along the roads, eating ice-cream, looking at stalls and just generally enjoying the atmosphere.
It was the end of Buddhist Lent on the weekend- one of the biggest holy days of the year- obviously an excuse to get pissed. The river road was blocked off every evening last week, and traders set up their stalls- metres and metres of crap. There was even a ferris wheel- although it wasn’t mechanised- some poor dudes had to churn it round by hand!
There was also the annual boat-racing festival- something that many people spend months training for, including some of our crew, for the foreign women’s team. Unfortunately, most people get too drunk to actually pay attention, and it’s not like there’s even a schedule or anything. In fact, the girl’s team were supposed to race at 8am, and ended up sitting in the boat for more than three hours, waiting. Lao style.
Regardless, it was a pretty great day. Our resident cover band, Uluvus, played at four separate venues, each show more shambolic than the last. Beer and food was passed and around and shared willy-nilly. The bad weather blown over by the typhoon in Vietnam last week had made everything all muddy- a bit like Woodstock!

One of my work colleagues rang to invite me to her house- immediately. Another Lao trait of giving no notice and making you feel guilty if you don’t go. But I never made it. To make up for it, I braved the driving rain on Monday to her house to share the leftovers.

Anyway, despite the frustration and the guilt, I will miss them but everyone keeps telling me I’ve done the right thing…