The Final Hours

Thirty six years ago, almost to the day, I left Vientiane, Laos to return to The States for what would be the final time. It wasn't just "home leave" for a couple of weeks. This would be it. I was sixteen years old, had spent one half of my life in what was once a foreign country that was now my home, and once again, I was being uprooted to return to a country that was now more foreign to me than Laos could ever be.

I remember the day of my departure vividly. To this day, the only thing I can't figure out is where were my parents, my siblings, or our housekeepers? Where was everyone?

The picture frozen in my mind, that will eventually go with me to my grave, is a vivid picture of me and our male housekeeper Herm, saying good-bye to one another. Herm was a kind soul. He loved me and my family. He showed his devotion on many occasions. One that stands out in the forefront of my memory was the time he invited us to his village for a special dinner. I can't remember if it was a New Year's celebration, or a farewell party, I only remember the festivities of the evening. Children from the village hung over the low lying windows of his traditional Lao style home, trying to be a part of the celebration inside. As the evening progressed, the kerosene lanterns were lit, and the children continued to be a captive audience. Herm never shooed them away, as I'm sure he was so proud to have us in his home within his village.

Herm was a tall Lao man. Not your average Lao. I wonder today if he may have been a Hmong. He had a square head, covered in coarse black hair that he wore short enough to stand straight up on top of his head. He had big wide eyes, and big teeth. He had a large scar around his neck. I'm not sure if he was burned sometime in his life, or had his throat slit, or had some sort of operation. All I remember is he kind of reminded me of Frankenstein. I'm sure a lot of that had to do with my young teenage age. He attended to our garden, and helped in any way that he was needed. I would ride my bike up to our big wrought iron gate, ring my bicycle bell, and Herm would run out to open the gate for me. I'd thank him, and he'd wave, and smile, and be grateful that he could help me. Why can't I just go back to that time for 5 minutes?

The only person present, that I can remember, on that last day in Laos is Herm. He helped load the taxi with my luggage, as I jumped into the back seat. The driver got in and put the car into gear. I looked at Herm, and waved good-bye to him. I didn't hug him, I don't remember thanking him, and I know I didn't shake his hand. I got into the taxi and simply waved good-bye to him, and drove off, never to look back, never to return for another chance to say a proper good-bye.

Why did I have to be 16 years old for this final farewell? Maybe I didn't believe I wasn't coming back? How does a 16 year old know better? There is no excuse for this sort of behavior, and it continues to haunt me to this day. There could have been nothing better on this journey than to have been able to find Herm, and put my arms around him and thank him for all he did for me and my family. That wasn't possible as I didn't know where his village was, or his full name, or if he's even alive. I doubt that he is, though I'll never stop wondering.

Ironically, there is a bittersweet ending to this story.

Across the street from my hotel is Wat Chanh. It's a beautiful temple that is approximately 458 years old. It houses about 30 monks I am told.

One day, strolling through Wat Chanh, I befriended a young monk by the name of Somsy. He is 22 years old, and has been a monk since he was 13 years old. He came from a poor family in Southern Laos. His parents knew he would never be educated unless he left his home and family to become a monk. He eventually ended up at Wat Chanh.

Though he is only 22 years old, he seems wise beyond his years. He has taught himself Japanese, and English, and studies Buddhism, and other subjects. He hopes to be a tour guide one day. At my suggestion, he agreed to teach me how to write numbers in Laotian. I would sit with him and practice, and practice, and practice. I only made it up to number 3, as we would start chatting and laughing, or it would become his prayer time, or a day would go by without a visit from me. He was a good teacher. He would clap when I properly wrote a number, or give me a cheer. He made me laugh, and we would laugh together.

One morning during my stay I had my favorite roadside food stand cook a whole chicken, some fish, and sticky rice to take to the temple as an offering. Somsy's Master made a comment to him about how generous the foreigner (me) was to bring food to the temple for the monks. They were very grateful.

So, today, the day before I depart this lovely country that is so near and dear to my heart, I went to the temple to meet with Somsy to say good-bye. We sat at a low table on the side of the temple, our toes buried in dust, and chatted about my departure. My eyes filled with tears, and I found myself unable to complete a sentence. Somsy too had a hard time finishing his sentences. He told me he had a gift for me, and pulled it from his bag. It was a lovely silk scarf that he chose for me. He called it a Christmas gift, and a farewell gift. I tried hard not to lose my composure. Tears rolled down my face, and I could barely speak. He then pulled two baci strings from his bag, and tied them around my wrists wishing me good health, a good new year, and a safe journey home. I gave him a beer bottle cap that was on a beer bottle I drank from in Kauai earlier this year that had the word "Lilo" (Hawaiian) with the English translation of "Lost" under it. I kept it in the pocket of my bathrobe for the past 11 months. I made the decision to carry this silly cap with me to Laos, and leave it behind, as I was sure I would no longer be "lost", once I returned here. I tried to explain this story to Somsy. He seemed confused, and more interested that the cap came all the way from Hawaii. I asked him to bury the cap for me. I'm not sure he understood that request. He played with cap nearly the entire time I sat with him. I think he used it as a diversion to keep away the tears that were about to overcome him. He told me he has never met a "foreigner" like me before, somebdoy that comes to spend time talking with him, and laughing with him. He told me he would miss my smile, something nobody has ever said to me before. He compared my departure to the sadness he felt when his Grandma died. I cried uncontrollably, and finally had to dismiss myself from, what would be, one of my final encounters with Somsy.

So, you wonder how does this ending tie into Herm? Saying good-bye to Somsy was so much like the day I left 36 years ago without giving Herm a big hug, and thanking him for his devotion. I knew I could not make the same mistake twice. This time I yearned to throw my arms around Somsy and tell him what a kind and good friend he had become to me. Only this time, I was forbidden to do that, as a woman cannot touch a monk in Laos.

In the Buddhist religion one leaves one life for the next. I wonder if Herm left the life that I once knew of him, and came back in his next life as the young Somsy, offering me an opportunity to say a proper good-bye. I will continue wonder.

Tomorrow, once again, I will leave this country with a heavy sadness filling my heart.

Good-bye Herm. Good-bye Somsy. Good-bye Laos.

Sabaidee.

Day Two of Twelve

In order to find the homes I lived in, and the schools I attended, I decided the best way to go about that would be to hire a car and driver. If nothing else, at least I could get my bearings, and go out on my own if I needed to.

My driver, Mr. Chai, picked me up at 8:00AM on Saturday morning. He was a young Lao man, about 30 years old. We shook hands, and I warned him about the day ahead, and the emotional state in which he might find me throughout the day. In the usual Lao manner, he assured me there would be no problem with whatever it was I would be dealing with. We exited the lobby, and I started to explain.

Once in the car, we discussed my objectives, and agreed on the least circuitous route. We would head west toward the airport, my dad's office, my elementary school, and the first house I lived in. From there we would head northeast towards my other 3 houses, and eventually head even further north towards the American School where I attended 7th - 10th grade.

We made our way along Wattay Road towards my dad's office. Within minutes I spotted the building that once housed my Elementary School on the opposite side of the street. Agreeing to come back to it, we continued towards the airport. Once in front of my dad's office, Mr. Chai spoke with the guards to see if they would permit me to enter the compound in order to take a picture. They would not agree for me to do so, and Mr. Chai assured me we would get in closer by going in the "back way". I took a few photographs from across the street, and we headed towards the "back way". As it turned out, this happened to be an old departure lounge for "customers" of Air America, and often times their family members. I was in this building on more than one occasion as a cheerleader heading to Udorn for games against the American School there, as well as catching the commissary flight to Bangkok on one of Air America's airplanes. As I walked through this building, and stepped on the tarmac, I was overcome with emotion. I quietly weeped, as Mr. Chai explained to people why I was crying. I stood out on the tarmac that housed Air America's fleet of planes. I was drawn back to a time of long ago. Memories flooded my mind. Memories of my dad, memories of being a kid, memories of the happy Filipino mechanics that worked for Air America, and memories of happy crazy pilots and kickers that populated this airport.

I pulled myself together, and Mr. Chai and I headed down Wattay Road to see if we could find the first house I lived in. I was sure this was going to be an impossible task. This was after all, the first house I lived in in Vientiane 44 years ago! How would I know which road to take?

As we slowly cruised down Wattay Road we came upon a road off to the left. I asked Mr. Chai to turn down this dirt road, and to drive slowly. We passed shacks with tiny store fronts and noodle shops, and children playing in the dusty road. For some reason I asked Mr. Chai to take a left turn down a narrow dirt road, and he had no choice but to take it slow. It was so familiar to me with the potholes, rocks, and dirt. It just felt right, and sure enough there it was, my house exactly the way it looked 44 years ago. Of course I mean this to say the house hadn't been modified by any means from the exterior. The yard looked smaller in the front than I remember it being, and the wall in front of the house was much taller than when I lived there. Other than that, it really hadn't changed a bit. Once again, I was entirely consumed with emotion. I wept as I couldn't believe my eyes.

Mr. Chai was kind enough to ask the residents of this home if I could take a walk through the house. They were taken by my story and agreed happily to allow me to do so. So, there I was. Walking through my old bedroom, peeking into my parent's and siblings room, and the tiny bathroom that we all shared. It all looked so much smaller than I remembered it being.
We thanked the residents, and off we went to snap a couple of photos of my elementary school, The International School of Vientiane.

Like my old house, my school looked so much smaller than I remember it being. I was saddened by it's shabby appearance. It was rundown, and overgrown. Oddly, there was a two seat swing set sitting in the overgrown garden that I'm certain I shared with a friend and a small warm loaf of fresh French bread, or creamy pastry, on numerous mornings throughout the school year.

I'm not sure why, but once we left my house on Wattay Road, I would not shed another tear for the rest of the day. My emotions were finally in check.

Leaving my school we headed up to That Luang. Here I would have another house to locate, as well as the house of my dear friend Sean Watkins. Once again, the streets seemed more narrow, and distances to and from one place to the next seemed shorter. Even That Luang hill didn't seem nearly as steep as it was back 36 years ago. How is that possible? I think they graded the hill down in order for That Luang to appear more prominent from afar. Of course, this is just my personal opinion.

Again, the sights were all too familiar, and instinctively I knew where my house should have been. This should have been the easiest house to identify as it wasn't down any dirt road, it was right out in the open of That Luang. We turned onto a small road that seemed familiar, and I got out of the car. I had to walk around a bit to familiarize myself with the neighborhood as I was unable to identify my house. After a few minutes, I discovered Sean's house and knew exactly where my house should have been. It was now a Suzuki building. My house was gone, though I could see walls that were familiar to me. The wall around the property was also the same. I took photographs, and off we went. House #2 now somewhat identified.

From here we headed to KM6. Now, as a kid, KM6 seemed like miles out of the city. Mr. Chai said he thought he knew where my old American School was located. As he headed to what used to be out of the city, he turned down some roads that seemed vaguely familiar to me. I knew the school wasn't located this close in, and questioned Mr. Chai. Shame on me. Soon enough, we pulled up to a side entrance of the American Compound at KM6, and once again, Mr. Chai spoke with the guard to have permission granted for entry.

Sadly there are only a handful of homes still standing in this compound. Kaysone Pomvihan (Leader of the Pathet Lao) made residence here during his last years, and what is left standing has been turned into a very small museum in his honor. The school (ASV - American School of Vientiane) was torn down in 1995 according to the woman giving the tour to me and Mr. Chai. Oh well, I got a few pictures of what remains today, and a very nice guided tour of Kaysone's life in KM6.

From here we left to locate House #3 & #4 off That Luang Road. Once again, we creeped along the road until we came to a road that seemed like the right choice. Once again, it was. I was in "Party Paddy". A ton of Americans lived down here. The Boyles, The Drivers, The Smiths, The Grahams, The Condes, The Morehouses, The Olsons, and The Colemans, just to name a few. And as I did before, I was able to give Mr. Chai perfect directions to get to my house. House #3. It looked exactly the same with the exception of a two story addition at the back of the house, and all of the klongs surrounding the house were now filled in with other houses. The roads were unpaved, dusty, and filled with rocks and potholes. Some things never change.

Finally, just a few minutes away and down a couple more unpaved dusty roads, I was able to locate House #4, the last house I would live in during my long stay in Laos. Again, the house had been severely modified, but there were things about it I remembered. The same decorative window coverings on the windows of my parent's bedrooms, the servant's quarters in the rear of the house, and the large side yard. The McClean's house was still located next door, though it had been rebuilt. The traditional Lao huts, water buffalo and oxen, naked children, and rice paddies had all been replaced with modern looking homes. My heart ached.

Mr. Chai and I drove back down the bumpy for our next destination. I couldn't help but remember the day, so many years ago, that I took my final ride down this old road, alone in a taxi, to head back to the States for good. That would become one of the saddest days of my life.

So, I came and found what I needed to find. I'm not exactly sure what it all means. That's work that will need to be done once back in the U.S. There are moments while I'm wandering around this charming city that I feel a part of it, that perhaps I belong here.

Day One of Twelve

As I headed out for my first day of exploring (going further than 4 blocks as I did the night before), I passed a little (I'm not even sure what to call it) stand where a Lao woman was cooking skewered meats, and a large pot of sticky rice on charcoal. What caught my attention was a basket with what appeared to be green papaya. I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked at the woman and said in Laotian, "green papaya salad?" She confirmed my uncertainty.

It was only 10:00 in the morning and I had just finished my breakfast. I told her I'd be back.

I trudged into town to find the American Embassy, the Morning Market (Talat Sao), a car rental agency, and once again, anything that would bring me the comfort of familiarity.

Within minutes I came across the all to familiar street of Rue Samsenthai, one of the main streets that runs through downtown Vientiane. As I sat in the car rental agency I looked across the street. My eyes were filled with surprise as they stared at the sign above the jewelry store. It was one of the jewelry stores I visited in my youth, Saigon Bijou. Thirty six years later it was still there. I'm sure it was the same exact sign as nothing about it looked modern or refurbished.

I finished my business and headed in the direction of the American Embassy. I wasn't exactly sure where it was, I only knew the direction I needed to head. As I turned off of Rue Samsenthai I stopped dead in my tracks. Again, tears filled my eyes as I stared at the old monument I passed by regularly as a kid. That Dam. She looked as old as she did back all those years ago. Again, instinctively, I knew I was close to the Embassy. It's strange how your mind doesn't let you forget, even after 36 years has passed. Sure enough, I went in the direction I remembered, and came right onto the American Embassy. It was different and yet, still the same.

After completing my registration with the Embassy (safety first), I continued up the street to Rue Lang Xang. I knew the Morning Market was still here, and sure enough within a few minutes I was standing in front of it. As usual, a beehive of activity.

The area of the market that was familiar to me was enclosed by construction fencing, and all torn up. However, the Lao style building that once housed the fish and meat market, herbs including, but not limited to marijuana, and various sundries, still stood tall behind the fencing. Seeing this building, even if in the distance, brought a sense of peace to me. It remained after all these years.

Surrounding the "new" market (mall style), I was pleased to see the vendors of the past. Old women with beetle nut stained teeth selling what appeared to be roots, and barks (for medicinal purposes), handfuls of freshly harvested sweet potatoes and peanuts, and fruits that were unfamiliar to me. I stopped a woman carrying handmade baskets tied to a pole that she carried on her shoulder. I asked her how much she wanted for one basket and she replied in Lao "20,000 Kip." I told her I would pay 10,000 Kip and she refused me. I then offered her 15,000 Kip and she accepted my offer. I bought two handmade baskets for 30,000 Kip which equates to about $2.50. Shame on me. It's just the way it is in Laos. Rarely do you pay the asking price. Again, all too familiar.

After stopping for an ice cold BeerLao, I headed back towards my hotel, and what I knew might be one of the most delicious lunches I've had in 36 years.

As I approached the hut housing the woman making the papaya salad a look of surprise filled her face. I guess she didn't really think I was coming back after all. I pulled up a plastic stool to the one and only table available and joined a male patron as he stood to leave. Black flies covered the food he left behind, and buzzed around the table. Another woman removed the food and picked up a filthy rag to wipe off the table. I followed with a sanitizing wipe.

The woman making my meal held up a half of a red chili pepper to indicate the level of spiciness I could tolerate. I agreed that'd be a good place to start. Within minutes I was served a plate of the most incredibly fresh, delicious, and perfectly seasoned green papaya salad and sticky rice (served in a plastic bag, not sure about that) I'd had since I was 16 years old. With the first mouthful the flavors of the fresh lime, the salty fish sauce, the crispness of the green papaya, and the bite of the red hot chili pepper awakened my tastebuds and so many memories. The hot sticky rice provided a respite from the heat taking over my mouth. As my nose began to run, and a light sweat broke out on my brow, I took a gulp of ice cold BeerLao to wash it all down.

Yes, some things are different, and some are still the same.

It Feels like Home...

After nearly 20 hours of flying, and a night in Bangkok, the wheels of Thai Airways Flight 507 touched down on the runway at the Wattay International Airport in Vientiane, Lao P.D.R., around 2PM on December 17, 2009.

As we approached the airport a wave of emotions consumed my entire being. The anticipation of finally seeing the place where my childhood blossomed became nearly unbearable. I yearned to see just one thing familiar.

Wattay Airport, though newly built since my departure in 1973, still had a similar design to it. Yes, it was modern, and taller, larger, and fully equipped with an automated baggage claim area, but the airport of old remained in the architectural design. If I remember correctly, the parking lot is still in the same location, and hasn't changed much in size.

As we made our way across town, my head was spinning as I hoped to catch a glimpse of my dad's old office. I knew it was close to the airport, and instinctively I knew it was near. Within moments we came upon it. Across the road to the left, there it was, my dad's office building. Tears flooded my face as I quietly weeped. It looked so small compared to how large I remembered it, and each visit I made to see my dad. Whether to pick up the mail, or have a meal in the mess hall run by Papa Chu, it was my dad's office, and I'm sure it was huge. Yes, there it was in all it's glory. An empty rundown shell, the first sighting of a piece of my childhood. This is only to be the beginning...

16 Days and Counting...

It's down to the wire now...my trip is staring me in the face. There's no turning back.

All of my vaccinations have been completed, with the exception of the ones I need to take closer to my departure, and while I'm away (typhoid & malaria). I've had the seasonal flu shot, the H1N1 flu shot, Hep A/B (x's 3), TB Tine, and I think that's it. I've got my visa from the Lao Consulate in Washingtin, D.C., all of my prescriptions have been filled, and now it's down to the final details.

I need to get currency from the bank (kip and baht), put my papers in order, pay the bills, and get out of the country.

I'm close.

Welcome to Laos

The early days in Laos were spent exploring my new neighborhood, and acquainting myself with my new neighbors, not necessarily just people. There were thatched huts, dirt paths, water buffalo, oxen, geese, dogs, lizards large and small, just to mention a few. I was literally dropped into the middle of a culture so foreign to me, I'm certain I went into survival mode and instinctively found comfort in my new surroundings. As I write this posting, and try to remember the emotions I may have been experiencing at that time, I can only remember this as a very happy time. Perhaps being reunited with my dad after so many months apart, and the comfort he provided upon my arrival, it seemed nothing could go wrong.

My dad leased a house that was just minutes away from the airport, and his work. This house would eventually become known as our "Wattay House" (or "Our First House"). The airport was, and still is, named Wattay Airport. The main drag through the city was called Wattay Road, and our new house was right off this road. It was a comfortable 2 story, 3 bedroom house, with 2 bathrooms (one up/one down). There was a living room, and dining room downstairs, and a large inside kitchen (yes, in one of the houses we would eventually move to, we had an "outside" kitchen). There were seperate maids quarters outside, with a very Laotian style bathroom that was to be used by the maids exclusively. The outside quarters outside also provided an area for the maids to do the laundry. As I remember, our laundry was done by hand in large silver tubs. Eventually my parents acquired one of those old fashion washing machines, with the rollers to squeeze the water out of each garment, eventually to be hung to dry. Once dried, the clothes would be ironed if necessary, folded and returned to our rooms. This would take course within the day, everyday.

My house off Wattay was furnished with a water storage tank/ tower. A big water truck would come rumbling down the dirt street in front of my house to fill the storage tank every so often. In the early days of unfamiliar heat and humidity, I would climb up a ladder to the top of the tank, jump in and swim in the water to cool off. This was to be the water that would eventually flow throughout my house. There was no hot water upon my arrival, so the maids would boil water and fill those silver tubs in order for me to bath somewhat comfortably. Eventually we acquired a "hot water heater", and could shower with hot and cold water. Literally, there were flames inside the heater that you could actually see. Not too dangerous, I'm sure.

As it turned out, water would be an element that I would become more aware of than ever before. The "water tank" was one of the first experiences, and then the monsoons made their opening debut. Once again, I would experience something I never imagined.

A Little History...

So, I'm guessing some of you might be wondering how I ever ended up in Laos.

It went something like this...

It was 1965, a sunny Sunday morning in Sunnyvale, California, late summer, or early fall, as it was warm enough to share a family breakfast on the back patio. I remember my fun loving dad making the announcement. It went something like this, "We're moving to Formosa." Hmmmmm..."Formosa," I thought to myself...where in the world is Formosa? Keep in mind, I was only 7 years old.

Apparently, my dad answered an ad in the SF Chronicle seeking people with Top Security Clearances. He had one of those, and the CIA needed men like my dad. He departed for Laos in October of 1965, and left his family behind for the next seven months.

The months and days between October 1965, and May of 1966, dad's absence was numbed by school, and the presence of close friends, the Nelsons, the Veltrops, and the Shelleys. I missed my dad, but never felt abandoned by him. His loneliness became apparent with each letter that arrived in the mailbox. I felt his presence with every letter that was read to me. He always reminded me to be a good girl, help my mom, and he let me how much he missed me. His scratchy penmanship was a comfort to me. I long for those letters today.

As the end of the school year closed in on us, we were busy getting vaccines, haircuts, and new clothes for the high temperatures, and humidity of this unknown country that would soon become my new home. My mom was busy giving away my favorite dresses, while I ran down the street with tears flooding my small face, not understanding why she was doing this. I can only imagine that the fever caused by the cholera, typhoid, and tetnaus vaccines added to this emotional frenzy. I was unable to lift my scrawny little arms above my waist as they were temporarily paralyzed by the pain of the vaccines. Packers came to crate our belongings. Familiar things disappeared. My home turned into an empty shell. All while I still wondered, where we were going, and why?

As, it turned out we weren't moving to Formosa, but instead, to Laos. This news didn't offer me any more comfort or less discomfort. It didn't matter. I didn't know better. Laos? Formosa? What's the difference? I just kept asking myself, "Where are we going? Why are we moving?" There were never any answers.

In May of 1966, my mom said good bye to our friends, and neighbors. It was a day filled with sadness for me, a young 8 year old girl. I said good bye to my friends, my grandma, and our dear neighbors, and many close family friends. Jerry and Hal took us to the airport, where we boarded Pan Am Flight #1 to Tokyo, Hong Kong, and eventually Bangkok, where many, many hours later I was happily reunited with my dad.

We spent a couple of days in Bangkok, lingering around a swimming pool, and recovering from the long smoke filled flight of the days back then. I was oblivious to any intimate reunion my parents might have shared.

Finally, we boarded a flight to Vientiane, Laos. We were on Royal Air Lao, a 2 prop plane (DC-3, I think), and landed a little more than a couple of hours after we took off.

They rolled the steps up to the plane. I stopped at the doorway of the plane just before descending down the steps to the hot, dry tarmac awaiting my arrival. . As I stood at the doorway of the airplane in my orange and yellow culotte outfit, and freshly bobbed hair, with freckles on my sweet little face, the hot, humid Laotian air consumed my small body and lungs within seconds. For a moment, I gasped for air. I felt as though I'd become enveloped in another skin.

Welcome to Laos, Elizabeth. May 1966.

Sabaidee,

Liz