Redemption

I was made to feel bad for not going out of town last weekend for a friend’s birthday. It was his 30th, so really I should have gone, but the thing is that I’ve recently absolved myself from ever having to set foot near a large body of water, a boat, mud, rain or strenuous/unenjoyable physical activity ever again. Isn’t it marvellous? Thanks Mother and Father for your relentless adventurism. I’ve done it all now, which leaves me to a future of peace and comfort- at the tender age of 28. I’m tickled pink!

Holiday
We’ve been away for the past couple of weeks, in case you haven’t noticed. Parental duties, by no means arduous or imposing, took us criss-crossing the city in search of exciting new aid projects- the Lao Disabled Women’s Centre, the Lao Rugby Federation – and then to Luang Prabang. How I love it up there! How I wished we could have stayed a little longer.

But we were happy, in the end, to head onwards north, to rustic Meung Ngoi, a gorgeous village with a tiny main street running through it; we stayed in the only guesthouse with hot water, and the electricity was only on for a few hours. We even managed to stop off a couple of times at the Island’s village again- it was on our official itinerary! It doesn’t surprise me that travel agencies consider Ban Sop-Kong as a model rural village.

The Island, of course, has relatives living up and down the river, and we dropped on some distant cousin, Xiengvong, who, it turns out, makes boat propellers from old bomb casings for a living. Should’ve seen my dad’s eyes light up at that one.

Xiengvong later invited us over for dinner with his family. Mum and Dad were hesitant, feeling like they were intruding, but I assured them, from my own personal experience, that not only would the food be quite easily the best Lao food they would ever taste, the family would also vastly over-cater, in true Lao style.

I was correct in every respect- there was enough food for ten people, and the best thing was it was 100% locally produced. The family had grown the rice, chillies and spices, foraged for the riverweed, caught the fish, and shot the unidentified wildlife that may or may not have been related to the buffalo.

Our trip was organised by the very competent young Frenchman, Francois, at Exotissimo travel, who presented us with a detailed itinerary involving boats, ethnic villages and trekking- grade ‘easy’.

I suppose, Monsieur Francois, it would have been easy, and the whole thing more pleasant, if it hadn’t been, you know, the rainy season… And mud, towers of it, piles of it, everywhere I looked, in my dreams for days!

And I suppose I would have enjoyed it more if I were more coordinated. Or outdoorsy. Or adventurous. Or just a generally more pleasant person. As it was, the only satisfaction I found was in the knowledge that I could safely not ever have to do this kind of thing again if I didn’t want to, because I’ve done it more than enough…

Well, anyway, I suppose I can also be thankful for the fact that the delighted grins barely left my parents’ faces the whole trip, even (or especially during) our ‘grade easy’ treks through the mud, when Dad fell flat on his back on several occasions, each time brandishing his hand, bandaged up after a recent (minor) operation, in the air to triumphantly display its pristine whiteness.

I suppose, too, I should be grateful for this inexplicably gung-ho attitude, although those shiny faces gave me little comfort as sat white-knuckled in the back of an overloaded speedboat on a seven-hour trip to Huay-Xai. We really did think ‘fast boat’ meant ‘slow boat only faster’. Since when did ‘fast’ mean that much in Laos? Since when did it morph into a hair-raisingly dangerous careening across the vast Mekong, dodging storm debris and slamming through the wakes of other boats? Of course, it wasn’t until we reached the halfway point- a falling-down jetty with a roof on the edge of Pakbeng- that I bothered to whip out the Lonely Planet, echoing my mother’s indignation that we hadn’t been adequately warned about the noise, the cramped conditions, the general unpleasantness of this so-called ‘fast boat’.

"Serious accidents…fatalities...almost weekly...boat striking a hidden rock or tree limb...contact with a standing wave is sufficient to capsize...a simple capsize may have serious consequences for the passengers...tremendously noisy and disturbing to both animal and human life along the riverbanks...very cramped and uncomfortable...avoid all speedboat travel unless absolutely necessary."

Can you blame me for having a mini panic attack? Can you? We had no choices left at that stage. Having stayed on for the Luang Prabang boat-racing festival, we had one day to get to the border and catch a plane, and there is still no road, although I did catch wistful glimpses as we sped up the river of bulldozers high in the mountains.

After that, the sight of the Huayxai airport with its dirt floor and antique typewriter was especially welcome.

A Night on the Gay
So my whirlwind trip to Bangkok straight after couldn’t have been more surreal, really. I went to meet up with my old friend SC and his boyf Ben- our first time in Asia together. And my first real trip to BKK with someone who really knew the place.

We arrived in the evening and met at some sort of hip fashion show at the Siam Centre, a good start, I thought. But I did start panicking a bit when I felt myself fading shortly after dinner- that’s normal, right? 10 o’clock is a normal time for one’s energy to flag, isn’t it? ISN’T IT? I had an awful feeling this wouldn’t be acceptable on a Friday night in BKK with the gays, and I was damn right. We went back to the hotel to get changed at 11pm, and stayed at a bar until 2am.

The second night, the boys left Lou and me in an empty bar on Saturday at 10pm while they went and got changed, and it took me some time to realise, as the place slowly filled with people, that we were the only girls there. Not that we felt out of place.

We then moved on to what can only be described as Four Floors of Gay, one of those throbbing, druggy clubs playing very bad music, that I enjoyed for about an hour if only for the novelty of seeing so many goddamn men crammed into the one place.

It was 4am by the time the last bar shut, a time at which nothing is more vital than a serve of McDonalds on the way home- thank god there was one open. I felt lost, in another universe, as I climbed, exhausted, into bed. (And yet still, my eyes snapped open like a machine the following morning at 6.30.)

It was altogether a far more relaxed weekend in Bangkok than any time I’ve spent there before. The Chatuchak markets in particular- a mandatory destination on any given weekend in BKK, can be a desperate place if you’re alone- the panic associated with buying seizes one uncontrollably. But catching up with old friends means time needs to be taken to relax, chat, eat at a table, try some new-fangled tea drinks. This time we found ourselves taking a lot of pit-stops, lolling on pavements and steps, eating roadside food, nipping into 7-11s. I saw shops, restaurants and bars I never knew existed.

And my sustainable shopping mode is more or less permanent now, which means I buy less and less, and that I bypassed the most perfect bag in the world because I had spent all morning in Chatuchak and lost perspective. There, 500 Baht (about US$12) is considered excessive, for anything, and this bag I saw was 2000 baht- excessive, but not really when I think about it now, with regret.

But I did buy a new iPod, which I desperately needed, and a couple of clothing items and some Christmas presents and a pile of books, oh and I had my hair butchered by a smarmy masochist at Toni&Guy. Honestly, it took about 20 minutes, and if he’d cut any more off I’d have a crew-cut.

Me: What have you done? Where has my hair gone?
Toni&Guy Top Stylist: I have made you look good.
Me: But I only wanted a little bit off! You have made it far too short!
T&GTS (shaking his head dismissively): No, no, no. This one is good for your hair, it is best for your head, it is best haircut.
Me (whispering, eyes welling): Ok. I think I’ll go talk to my friend now.
T&GTS retires to the corner to snigger at me as I hiss “I hate it! I hate it!” to Lou.

My feeling of desolation didn’t leave for hours, even though SC, one of my more honest friends, shrugged when he saw it and said “It looks great! What are you worried about?” and even though Lou said she liked it better than before (what’s that meant to mean?) and even though I couldn’t help noticing that no one seemed horrified/replused by me when we went out later. In fact, I saw several girls with short hair. And in fact, I don’t need a hairdryer anymore and it takes just 2 minutes to get ready. And in fact, I’ve been feeling secretly jealous of Posh Spice ever since she cut her hair off and have been musing vaguely on the possibilities. And in fact, maybe that evil hairdresser was correct, even though I hate him for laughing at me…

I’ve had mixed reactions at work. No one said anything at first. A couple of the girls finally asked me, bewildered, “Why, why you cut your hair so short??” And a couple more since have sidled up to me and said, “I want short hair too. Not short like you, but shorter. What you think?” Short hair is exceptionally rare for Lao girls. I have a fond notion of starting some kind of revolution – a hair revolution - right here in the newsroom. Now that would really be making a difference, wouldn’t it? That’s something I could put in my end-of-project report under achievements. “Encouraged young Lao women to think outside the box (to layer, shorten, add highlights), thus empowering them to make further, more radical individual decisions…”

Lao womanhood
But, judging by the state of this year’s Miss Apone Lao contestants, who made their way prettily into the Vientiane Times- a major sponsor- this week to, well, you know, look pretty and do nothing, a revolution of this kind is still a long way off.

Miss Apone Lao is a beauty contest put on by the Lao Women’s Union, to determine which of the country’s young women best embodies traditional Lao womanhood. Auditions are held across the country, and 18 girls are chosen as finalists. The girls appear on stage and on TV, introducing themselves with a demure little curtsey, and stepping back to smile vacantly. Their hometowns and measurements are recorded meticulously, the better to allow the general population give their most informed opinions, which ultimately influence the official vote. The winner gets her face plastered across billboards and newspaper ads for things like Lao Airlines and coffee. It’s desperate to watch. We cover the whole thing from the auditions onwards, which means a lot of commentary from the organisers.

“As you know, we look for both beauty and intelligence in this contest,” one of the organisers will say. “The Luang Prabang auditions were impressive. We saw a number of girls who, although pretty, did not display intelligence. And of course, we had many girls come through who, although obviously very smart, just weren’t attractive enough.”

At this point, my feminist instincts, always lurking, obediently concealed, just below the surface, boil upwards.

Me: But this is disgraceful! Tik, how can you write such things! We should be encouraging these kinds of attitudes in Vientiane Times. I don’t care if she is a senior member of the Women’s Union!
Tik, the reporter assigned each year to cover the event: But Sharlie (that’s how people pronounce my name here), everyone knows Lao girl must be beautiful for to have successful in life. For me, beautiful girl is most important.
Me (almost speechless with rage): So you would rather marry a beautiful girl who is stupid, than a smart girl who is ugly?
Tik: Yes. This is correct.

I must point out that Tik himself is no oil painting- pimply and scrawny with crooked teeth and a deep-seated phobia of air conditioning. Convinced that it is slowly destroying his health, for the sake of all the ladies who must be queuing up to marry him, he insists on a prime desk in a corner of the layout room, and works wearing a surgical mask.

Stand back, ladies- he’s mine!

Office update:
The electricity was off in most of the office for a couple of days last week- a cable burnt out in the night, we could have died! - and the reporters resorted to hopping onto the various available computers throughout the building. Inconceivably, we finished all the stories by 4.30 on both days- can you imagine? I should like to impose a daily crisis in the newsroom on a daily basis, if it means they actually get their arses into gear. An actual crisis is the only thing that can really instil a sense of urgency in this place.