An unexpected journey, an unenviable task

So Friday afternoon I am sitting in the office talking to my boss Mike about the past week and all that it entailed, and I said ‘it looks like we’ll be able to relax a bit this weekend.’ We both immediately knocked on wood.

Not 20 minutes later, our American Citizen Services assistant Ae received a call that would result in me getting in a car to head to Vang Vieng at 5:30 pm. Bad things always come in threes, I guess. Third time in six days for me responding to tragedy.

So I got into an embassy car and started heading north. Vang Vieng is about 2.5 hours north (about 160 KM) of Vientiane on Highway 13, which is the main artery running north and south in the country. The first 75 or so kilometers is in the Vientiane valley, so it’s a flat, straight shot. The rest is in rolling hills and mountains, so it’s a bit of a roller coaster ride. Of course, it got dark soon after we left Vientiane, which throws another variable into the mix.

There is a reason people generally try not to travel on the road at night in Laos.

The road passes through small villages and medium sized villages (there really aren’t any big villages, I guess) along the way. The villages are generally strung out along the road, storefronts and, mostly, houses set close to the passing traffic. As such, the road serves as a kind of sidewalk, market, and town square in addition to being the domain of commercial trucking after dark.

There is a clear progression of village activity as the sun sets and it gets dark. At dusk we passed through villages full of people closing up their little roadside shops, walking home, or otherwise finishing up their day. Sundown, we went through villages full of people walking, bucket in hand and towel over the shoulder, towards nearby streams for their evening bath. Later, people settled into their yards or front rooms drinking beer, playing cards, watching TV, chatting.

It’s strange to pass by someone at 40 miles per hour and get a glimpse into their world. Like the woman sitting watching TV while she absently rocked her baby in a bassinet hanging from the ceiling, or the man sitting on his parked motorbike in his front yard smoking a cigarette in his underwear. You catch a glimpse, start to wonder, and then they are lost in the rearview mirror.

I’ll add, in case it’s not obvious, that I was a passenger in the car, in the capable hands of an embassy driver, so was able to ponder the lives of random people while the driver expertly avoided getting pancaked by the seemingly out of control trucks that barrel down the middle of the road.

We made it to Vang Vieng about 8:30 pm and went directly to the scene. I met with the owner and got some background information, then waited for some VV officials to show. The group slowly gathered as we waited for some special provincial team from Phonehong, a few hour drive away. The owner fed us while we waited. I insisted I pay for my dinner, she insisted I didn’t. I won. Ethics and all that.

The provincial team arrived, and the next few hours taught me the difference between gut-wrenching and heart-wrenching. Another instance of someone too young, a family back home not expecting my phone call.

My night ended about 3:00 am after a long shower, and began again at 6:00 am, given the time difference between here and the US and more calls needed to be made. I met with the local officials at 8:00 am, and they went off to make arrangements and produce some documentation. I went off to wait.

Vang Vieng, as I think I (and many others) have mentioned before, is a bit of a tourist mecca. There are certain places around Asia that have what can be called tourist ghettos, neighborhoods that cater almost exclusively to the budget backpacker set, nearly identical restaurants, internet shops, fruit shake stands, bars, stacked one after the other. VV is pretty much one big tourist ghetto, and has gotten a reputation for ‘Friends’ reruns in all the restaurants. And it was pretty true the last time we were there. I’m happy to report that there has been some diversification in the entertainment on offer. I found the ViengChampa restaurant standing proudly in the center of the ghetto, The Simpsons blaring from multiple TVs. The proprietor was very gracious when I asked whether he minded if I just hung around for a while as I was waiting for a call. 3 sodas and 2 bottles of water later, and I had watched about all The Simspons I cared to see. Luckily, one of my contacts called to say it was time to meet again.

I headed back to the guesthouse we were staying at, a great place called the Ban Sabai (or Xayoh, called both on the sign) to meet. The police and local officials had been able to arrange a cremation ceremony, in accordance with the family’s wishes, for Saturday afternoon at 3:00. It was 12:30, so I had some time. I hadn’t let the guesthouse know how many nights we’d be staying, so I let them know we’d be there one more night, and then headed down to the riverfront restaurant to get some food. 10 minutes later the manager informed me that, in fact, I would not be staying with them another night after all, because they had filled up with reservations before I confirmed the second night. So it was down the river to the Thavonsouk, another place that we stayed at when my parents visited.

At 2:00 I was off to a local district office to sign some documents and prepare for the ceremony. The office was on the second floor of an old meeting hall. The first floor was being used to store nuts of some sort. Sacks and sacks of nuts. The office windows were open, but what little breeze there was was overpowered by the oscillating fan which cooled the room somewhat and intermittently blew the documents around.

At 3:00, we gathered at the hospital to await the monks, who would lead the procession to the cremation site. While waiting, some people helped to prepare everything, putting together a ceremonial casket topped by a small stupa that stood about 5 feet high. The District Chief arrived, then the monks. Once everyone was there, the procession began. We headed through town, across the old Indochina war-era landing strip that was used by the US and Royalist forces, and on to highway 13.

It was in many ways similar to a funeral procession in the US. In the US, however, I always kind of think people look on them as a bit of a nuisance. They are slow, they stop traffic, etc. In Vang Vieng, everyone we passed stopped what they were doing and looked up, watching the procession. They maybe shared a few words, pointed to the lead vehicle carrying the casket, nodded. It was nice.

We went a few kilometers north of town to the cremation site. There is a covered area where the ceremony takes place and a pyre in a small field backed by rolling green mountains. The monks led a nice, respectful ceremony for the deceased, and we all placed ceremonial candles on the pyre, which was then lit.

The monks and District Chief (he would be like a county governor in the US, if such a thing existed. Maybe it does) left and I sat with the rest of the guys and shared a beer, literally, as we had a few common cups and passed them around. It’s tradition. You pour a glass, hand it to someone, they drink it down, toss any remaining foam, pass the glass back, more is poured in, handed to the next guy, and so on…

I excused myself for one last call that night to the US to report to the family on the ceremony. Because of my professional position and physical location, I was their connection to what was happening here. A heavy responsibility, but an important one.

At this point, I was running on fumes. I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I had the driver drop me off at Milan Pizza. Good pizza, no other guests, I could just sit there and eat in peace. I shuffled off towards my guesthouse, but was stopped by the promise of a Lao Massage. I think I slept through about half of it.

Back on the road to the guesthouse, soundtrack courtesy of Jack Johnson and my IPod, I passed a little storefront with Coronettos. You know I can’t say no to a coronetto. A young mother and her two kids were manning the store. The kid, not more than 3, boldly told me his name was JAY! His little sister in her mother’s arms was named SEE!!! And his mother was named MAE!!! (it means mom).

I went for a walk around town (it’s not a large town), enjoyed my ice cream, enjoyed my Jack Johnson music, and enjoyed my solitude. For whatever reason, it was kind of nice to just walk around and see all the people doing whatever they do, enjoying their night with friends and ‘Friends’.

I finally hit a wall, figuratively of course, and headed back to my guesthouse and went to bed. Around midnight, my thoughtful neighbors decided to invite all their friends for a deck party, complete with singing, dancing, and firecrackers. Lovely. Silly Thai tourists were celebrating the end of Buddhist lent a little early or something. No matter, I fell back asleep almost immediately.

This morning, I headed back out to the cremation site, where another ceremony was held to gather and bless the remains. The monks were back, saying prayers for the spirit of the deceased, as was the District Chief. He was very nice to spend so much time on this case. He has people for that. The police, etc. needed a bit of time to draw up a few final documents, so I returned to my table at ViengChampa for a bit of breakfast.

After breakfast, I went to the guesthouse where the deceased was staying and took some pictures to send to his family, to show them what a beautiful place he was at. The guesthouse owner was arranging a ceremony with 9 monks that day to bless the place and to pray for the deceased. I told her I was sorry but I couldn’t stay until 4:00 pm when the ceremony would take place.

One more visit to the district office for a final accounting of the services, documents, and next steps, and I was on my way. I stayed awake until we got through the winding road and into the Vientiane valley. The next thing I knew, we were driving past the Vientiane airport.

Not a great weekend in what is a naturally beautiful part of Laos.