Another jolly tale that I think personifies Lao culture.

Like most people living here, our house is on a dirt lane off a main road. A few weeks ago, some of our neighbours dug up part of the track to lay pipes. Then they resealed it all up, with clay. This seemed perfectly fine all the time, but now there’re snowstorms in China, the bad weather has filtered down to Laos so that it has been raining non-stop, and very unseasonably, for the past three days. And do you know what happens when clay and water meet? A huge, impassable sludgy mess that snags bike tyres and suctions your feet right into it like quicksand, that’s what. The first time I attempted to use the road, the clay effects were completely unexpected, and I got completely stuck. The guards at the barracks stood and laughed at me, like they’d been doing to every other poor unsuspecting sod that morning, and finally came out to help me. It took them about half an hour to lug my bike out of the mud, and it was so clogged up it wouldn’t start. They had to take it up to the ex-president’s house and hose it down, while I went into the barracks to clean all the mud off my clothes and feet and legs and hands and bag, crying tears of embarrassment and fury (but so much that I didn’t completely take in my surroundings – I’ve always wanted to see what that house was like inside. There are about 30 guards living there, and some have wives and kids. It was dark and dank and made completely of concrete inside. Depressing, and I know for a fact they would get paid next to nothing.)
Anyway. I’ve since accepted that until the rain stops, I can’t ride my motorbike, but instead have to pick my way through the mud and get a tuk tuk at the other end. That’s all fine – the rain is forecast to stop tomorrow or the next day. No, my boiling, almost uncontrollable rage stems from the fact that, even though several cars have been bogged and most people living along the lane can just barely get their motorbikes through the last 100 metres of road, and despite the fact that clay mud adheres to everything it touches in large wet chunks and that it’s just getting worse with every passing day, no one has done or said anything about it. I’ve made grumpy comments to several people I’ve passed on the treacherous journey to the main road, and all I’ve got is the usual smile and shrug.
This is what it’s all about. Bad or annoying or inconvenient things happen and Lao people, much like Catholics, simply accept it as their lot. They could easily fix it; the original road is still visible under the churned up layer of wet mud, and it would be relatively easy to just shovel it all off while it’s still wet, or lay down a truckload of gravel. But no - everyone will just put up with it, because that’s the Lao way.
I’ve since found out that families responsible ‘ran out’ of money once they’d laid the pipes, and that a truckload of pebbles will cost 800,000 kip (about US$80 – really not that much given that the majority of the people on our lane are comparatively wealthy, and drive SUVs).
Paying for it ourselves could be seen in two ways. The first would be as a gesture of goodwill, simple thanks for being good neighbours, keeping us safe and un-burgled and always ready, like most Lao people, with a smile, so that you never feel lonely. That would be nice, wouldn’t it, to say thanks? The other way, however, would involve perpetuating the problem I’ve just outlined. That is, that something bad happens and people here wait for someone (usually foreigners) to come and fix it for them. Dilemma or what?

“A bead and a shoe”
Going away and coming back reminds you of what it means to be fashion victim.
One thing I forgot to talk about in my last post was how bewildered I was at the way people were dressed in Sydney and Melbourne. Actually, I felt the same way the first time I went back, in 2006, but that was more to do with the fact that everyone was dressed the same, and I realised that, being a fashion-conscious type, I must have looked the same as everyone else as well. And I felt a bit stupid, because actually I thought everyone looked pretty lame. Anyway, sorry if I sound hopelessly behind and out of touch, but I alarmed to understand that this year, it’s all about high-waisted everything – jeans, hotpants, skirts. I was appalled. (The Island, of course, was relatively sanguine about it all, but like I said, nothing much fazed him except for the birds and the obesity crisis.) But I spent a lot of time in a haze of confusion; everyone was walking around looking like their own grandfathers! I mean really.
My own rule of thumb is that I refuse to wear something that I would never have dreamt of wearing a year ago (bubble skirts, smocks, maxi-dresses, ponchos, leggings, etc), because it would usually mean that I wouldn’t end up wearing it the following year either. (Thus, I’ve embraced the currently in-vogue vaguely maternity-style top because a) I’ve always liked the way it looks and b) it’s very Bangkok.)
On New Year’s Eve in Sydney, I was almost more taken up with some of the ridiculous outfits than the bands. I saw large, tall girls in too-small vintage dresses and weird dancing shoes, and others in skirts that went to just below their boobs - looks that don’t look good on anyone. Sure, people can wear what they want, but if you’re going to so much effort in, why not choose something that at least suits you?
“When did every single boy decide that skinny jeans with baggy crotch was the way to go?” I wondered aloud. “Like, last year,” Brooke answered.
When Brooke and I used to go out on the town in our early twenties, it was all about cool sweaters and designer sneakers. In theory, I still favour that look – so low maintenance. Of course, I’d graduated to pointy shoes, skinny jeans and boots once I moved to Melbourne, but it’s definitely dropped a notch since I’ve been in Asia; jeans or shorts, some funky top from the Bangkok markets, and, if the night is special, what my housemate Cait and I call “a bead and a shoe’, meaning a nice necklace and cool shoes.
I have a feeling I’ve hit on works best.
Related is the fact that, after mining the Indian merchants at Thalat Sao for cashmere wool blend in blue and grey and black, I’ve commissioned the girls at favoured tailor True Colours to put together an entire working wardrobe before I leave – in less than two weeks! This is because I haven’t had to worry about proper work clothes, like, ever. And I can hardly go around in a sinh in Aus, now, can I?

Buddhism Canberra-style
Another thing I forgot to write about last time was that the Island and I checked out the Lao temple in Canberra just before we left. Although it was a long drive away through the drab southern suburbs, we really only intended to have a look and leave, but of course we ended up staying at least an hour, as the monks emerged one by one to have a chat- all six of them, one of whom emerged in his under-robes, wearing a blue Bonds singlet underneath.
The first one took us into the temple (a disappointing 80s-style cream brick house that happened to have a pointy roof and some sparkly bits around the outside wall), and he sat across the room while we knelt before the shrine. He was young, from Champassak, and had come over because family members had told him the temple needed monks. The conversation was slow and seemed awkward until I remembered how very Lao it was for people to sit without looking at each other, and to make comments punctuated with long silences. I’d forgotten because it seemed so out of context, and once I remembered, it was much easier to relax. The monks gave us offerings (potato chips and packaged fruit juice), as is the custom for all visitors, and took us to their orchard to pick a massive bag of organic plums.
The Lao community in Canberra, numbering about 3,000 nowadays, celebrate at least 10 Lao festivals every year. It’s nice to know it’s there.