Am I a Writer?

Time will tell. Note: Quite often, I write about people I know. If any of you object to anything I have written, let me know and I will remove it.

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Wannabe. Living in Vientiane, Laos. Has blog to avoid sending lengthy emails.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Red wine and steak

The Island has developed a real taste for red wine since he met me- red wine, steak and blue-vein cheese. It’s strange, because like many Lao people, he hates almost every other type of falang food. My next step is to convince him to lose the notion that red wine is to be drunk chilled, a fallacy created by all restaurants here in a bid to make the wine survive the heat.

Anyway, someone pointed out to me that I have never once used the Island’s mother’s name. Her name was- and believe me, there are tears in my eyes as I type this- Warm House.

His father is sad all the time now. He says he cries at night and thinks about his Warm House non-stop. They met as children and married at 15. Now she’s gone, and he has nothing left to do, with the kids almost all grown, and no job or skills.

We went over there one night last week and took a bottle of French wine- at the Island’s insistence, of course. We realised as soon as we got there that we had forgotten a bottle opener. Not to worry- the Island’s father took to the cork with a large screw, eventually popping it down into the wine. He polished off half the bottle in no time, squinted at the label like a pro, and the declared the French stuff to be much better than the cheap plonk his neighbour had brought to the funeral.

We also took over the photos I had taken of the sister’s wedding, and the father hauled out his big bag of family snapshots and spread them out. Photos from the funeral, hundreds of them. Photos of the children; photos of Warm House on the beach in Thailand; outside the Patuxai monument in Vientiane; nursing the one grandchild; as a 15-year-old in the village where they grew up. Photos from the funeral of the father’s brother- an eminent monk who was president of the American Buddhist Association in San Francisco (there was a police cavalcade and everything). The father put on his reading glasses and pored over them, shaking his head. The wedding photos eventually got all mixed up with the older ones and they all went into the bag together.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day- remember the big night last year? Nothing like last night (roses from the Island, followed by steak and wine, naturally). I’ve well and truly reached the point where I no longer feel compelled to go out and experience everything possible here. Especially, for example, nightclubs. Definitely a case of seen one, seen ‘em all.

Anyway, sorry I seem to have stopped writing as much, but I’ve been a bit under the weather. I’ve decided to blame the hen. She has stopped laying her eggs at our door. It’s our own fault- we decided on a breakfast fry-up last weekend, and just cooked up the whole lot. When the hen arrived for her morning sit-in, there was no point of reference for her anymore, no way for her tiny brain to orient itself, and she stalked off in confusion. While the eggs were sensational, a few days later, I became ill and my work took a turn for the worse. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it bad luck, but life hasn’t been as rosy.

I’ve been reading a great deal. I’ve almost finished Decca: The Letters of Jessica Mitford, an extremely pleasant and inspiring read, albeit marred by the enormousness of the book itself, which has been very difficult to prop up while in bed, which is where I do most of my reading.
Although I’m not much of a TV person, I’ve been watching a lot of David Attenborough on the Discovery Channel, and I’ve found myself feeling soothed and quite nostalgic (even though his familiar hushed and urgent tones have been dubbed over with the voice of an overwrought Thai man who probably isn’t nearly as posh). There’s something very therapeutic about nature shows.

And let’s not forget our duties as members of the Academy. Last weekend, it was Blood Diamond, set in war-torn Sierra Leone. The Lao among our group had difficulty believing it could possibly be a true depiction of life in Africa, because, as usual, they can’t believe that others could be that much worse off than them.

An example: Several people at the newspaper have been on training courses in India, and all have come back absolutely shell-shocked with the horror of it all- the people! The dirt! Shitting in the street! Beggars! Curry and funny accents!
Regardless of the fact that one could be prepared with a simple bit of reading up before one departs, it always staggers me that each and every one of them assumes that the outside world looks like Bangkok.
What they must be teaching in these schools, I have no idea.

I’ve been giving small ‘workshops’ at the newspaper, about writing, about style, about grammar. The staff all keep my handouts and take notes and pay attention, but I know it’s not getting anywhere. It’s well and truly a charade by now. The newspaper- a government organ- is simply not open to change, at least not the kind that I had envisioned. They know it, I know it, and they know that I know it, but we go along pretending I’ve got a legitimate job to do.

There are a million reasons why I’m still here, but I know things aren’t going well and I need a holiday when I find myself continually justifying what I’m doing.

The weekend should sort me out...