In a strange Lao style mix up, my fellow SALTers and I were signed up to run the 10k race instead of the 5K we had been training for. It worked out well in the end though and somehow all three of found it within ourselves to finish. My time came in at just under an hour, but don't get too excited; the route was suspiciously short. Our best guess is that we ran 8 or 9K. Larry, another MCCer who signed up to run the 21K had the opposite problem. The turn around sign was somehow knocked down and he (along with dozens of other runners) wound up running close to 30K! I'm excited to keep running in the mornings here and hopefully find opportunities to run a few more races, if not in Laos then when I return to Canada.

Disabled Women Join in International Friendship Half Marathon Event

Photo by Kaylie Tiessen

In the early hours of Saturday, November 17, 2007, the streets of downtown Vientiane were strangely empty of their usual fleet of motorcycles, tuk-tuks and cars, but the Lao National Stadium and the surrounding streets were a hub of activity none the less. Runners and walkers of many ages and nationalities showed off their physical abilities in Vientiane’s 10th Annual International Friendship Half Marathon. And while athletic types, the stereotypical participants in such an event, were present in abundance, they did not hold a monopoly on attendance. Also present were nearly forty women from the Lao Disabled Women’s Development Centre (LDWDC), all in matching light blue t-shirts, some in wheel chairs, others supported by crutches or friends, who overcame the obstacles of their disabilities to participate in this athletic event.

Some of the more able bodied women and their able bodied supporters took part in the 5,10 and (in one instance) even the 21 kilometre races, while the majority of the group stayed inside the National Stadium and completed three symbolic laps of the track. Though this may seem an easy task for an able bodied person, it was a feat accomplished only through great determination by these strong-spirited disabled women, who wanted to raise awareness of the challenges that disabled people face everyday, as well as draw attention to their many abilities. Ms. Kinnilone, herself a disabled woman and long time employee of the LDWDC had a clear message to get across on race day. “I want to say to all disabled people in Laos, and especially the women, be sure to pay attention to your work and education. Be confident! Remember that you are still a valuable part of this society and don’t let yourself become depressed by your physical disabilities.”

And how do the women feel about this special day? “They [were] very happy to attend,” says LDWDC director Ms. Chanhpheng Sivila. “The women come from many provinces, and they heard about International Friendship Half Marathon in Vientiane, but never before had the opportunity to participate. This event is about friendship and the women are happy to join in with able bodied people.” Each woman was awarded a special certificate for her efforts as she crossed the finish line. It is certainly an accomplishment that each one can be proud of for a long time to come.

As for the Lao Disabled Women’s Development Centre, the race to raise awareness and support for disabled women didn’t stop at the finish line. Today, the centre draws disabled women (and a few men) from all parts of the country, who are given a chance to learn a practical skill. The LDWDC offers vocational training and employment to these individuals in sewing, paper making, weaving or basic computer literacy as well as introductory English language instruction. Upon completion of their training, participants are able to return to their home communities with a new level of self worth and dignity, as they are now able to use their newly acquired skills to contribute to the family livelihood.

In addition to benefiting the individuals who pass through the centre, LDWDC acts as a valuable resource to the wider community, by demonstrating the abilities and potential of people living with disabilities and by building awareness within the general public of the needs and aspirations of disabled people in the Lao P.D.R.

*The LDWDC is supported in part by MCC Laos. For those of you who know Jane Snider and Larry Nafziger, they have worked with the centre for the past three years.

Light in the Darkness

When I step outside, under the full moon, I find Nalene, Isaac and Meh Jenah carefully lighting dozens of tiny candles and melting their bottoms to secure them to our front gate. Strangers are welcomed tonight. The children play with sparklers and firecrackers in wild abandonment. It is the night before the Buddhist “Boat Festival”, and everywhere I look, the world is lit up in celebration. Just when I think the beauty of the night has reached its pinnacle, relatives from next door, a young couple and their eight year old daughter pull up in their truck and open the door to me. This is my invitation to the riverside festivities.

We park as close to the river as we can and then, pushing through throngs of people, we stop to purchase little arrangements of candles on top of banana leaf rafts, one for each of us. And then it’s time to slide and scramble, down the slippery bank. My friend firmly takes hold of one hand so I don’t get lost in the crowd, and with our other hands we hold our candles high above our heads. As we reach the water’s edge, I cannot help but gasp audibly. Drifting southward down the river are thousands of tiny candles. So many prayers light up the darkness. Across the river in Thailand are many more flickering candles, backed by a sky full of fireworks. We are not alone.

But we don’t send our candles to float on the river just yet. Instead, I find myself pulled into a tiny boat. And suddenly we are out on the river, speeding among these luminous prayers, a cool breeze playing with our hair. Just as suddenly we reach a barge in the middle of the river, lit up with flickering green and orange lights, perfectly synchronized to look like a boat and its rowers. We clamber up the side of the barge (which reaches past my shoulders when I stand up in our wobbling little boat), to find a feast spread out before us, behind the curtain of festive lights. Here we are far from the crowds, with only a handful of people seated here, gathered to eat, drink and celebrate. Our laughter too adds to the brilliance of this night.

When we’ve eaten our fill and basked in the glow the moonlight and candlelight long enough, we go to the edge of the barge, slide onto our stomachs and reach far, far down to the water below, to release our newly lit candles. This festival is held in honour of a religion not my own, but its beauty has moved me. As I watch my candle float around the barge and out of sight, I pray passionately to the Creator God I know, thankful for and inspired by the radiance of this night.

It’s after midnight when we arrive home and for once I am the one who must call through the window of the sleeping house for the door to be opened.

Judging Poverty

How do I pull together the pieces of my week in the heart of the Lao countryside? When I sleep the glow of verdant rice paddies is still emblazoned in my mind and the aroma of steaming sticky rice, freshly harvested. But so too are the tired eyes of mothers, young women wrinkled and work hardened well before their time in an effort to keep their little ones full of rice. We travel to village after village, attend meeting after meeting, all full of disadvantaged people. We’re here to assess their level of poverty, their need of our assistance. “How many months in a year do you lack enough rice to eat?” and “Do you have any livestock?” and “What do you do when your children get sick?” Judging poverty.

Then we’re on to another village. By now it’s nearly dark but the children crowd around me and speak to me in quiet voices and I take picture after picture just to show them their face, maybe for the first time. These children are hungry. Their hair is tinged with orange and their bellies are swollen. I carefully record each of their ages in my notebook, sometimes doubling the age I initially guessed. “Who are you?” they say. “I am from Canada,” I say, but I’m met with blank expressions. “It’s close to America,” I say “have you ever heard of America?” The children shake their heads, “no”. By now their parents have gathered too and the meeting has started. The black night is lit by a candle, a bamboo torch, a fire. “Where do you get your water?” and “What do you eat when you run out of rice?” and “How do you irrigate your rice paddies.” Judging poverty.

I want to stay in each village for a week, a year, but as quickly as we come, we’re off again, flying over potholes into the depth of night. My head rings with the answers to our questions.

“We walk 30 minutes to the river to get our drinking water and to bathe and to fish, but the river’s running dry.”

“We have no water to irrigate our fields.”

“We collect food from the forest and sell rattan from the forest too,
but the forest is disappearing.”

“We can’t afford to take our children to the hospital
unless we think they’re going to die.”

“There are more people now than before.”

“There is less food now than before.”

They are poor. With enough time and resources, we could find work in each and every village we visit. As it is, we must judge the depth of their poverty and be selective.

Tha Thom District, Central Laos

UXO in Laos: Generating Pain and Hindering Development, 30 years after the Vietnam War

Photo by Maryanne Mutch

To reach the village of Yam Cha Yeum Xay, we must venture down the river in a shallow wooden boat, the noise of the engine causing the water buffalos to look up from their contemplative cud chewing as we pass by. Our vista of tree covered mountains, topped in mist, and the dense jungle whose ancient trees reach skyward and whose vines and runners reach down to graze our shoulders, lets me cling to a fantasy that we intrepid explorers are the first to ever experience this beauty. But when we step onto solid ground again and cross a rickety bamboo bridge, we find a village full of people, well established in this place. They wash their clothes on these banks. The water buffalos grazing on the shore belong to them. They eat the fish of these waters everyday. This place is their own.

We are here to ask questions about agriculture, sanitation and nutrition in order to find out whether this village would be a good location for a new MCC food security project. But development in this place has more than the usual obstacles. Bombies (as the Lao call the bomblets of cluster bombs) and other unexploded ordnance (UXO) which have remained hidden in the earth since the time of the Vietnam war (or as it is called here “The American War”), are ready to maim or kill the unsuspecting farmer who strikes it with his hoe or the curious child who is fascinated by this strange new toy.

Here in the village of Yam Cha Yeum Xay, we are sent to visit one such child in his home. Twelve year old Lampan Vanmasane was excited to have a break from school last April for Lao New Year. He spent the day fishing in the river with a friend. As the boys started for home, Lampan realized that he had forgotten his shoes on the bank and so he sent his friend on ahead while he ran bank to collect them. But as Lampan bent down to slip on his shoes, he saw something shining in the water. “I thought it was a flashlight,” he recounts now, as we sit cross legged in the only room of his family’s bamboo home, set high off the ground on stilts.

Lampan was disappointed with what he found, however, for when he reached down to pull this “flashlight” out of the water. What he held in his small hand was only an old, rusty tube of metal. But as he threw his discarded treasure back into the river, the impact triggered an explosion, sending tiny shards of metal shooting out in all directions, including one small piece, which lodged itself in Lampan’s side. Though he still feels sharp pains in his side six months later, Lampan was lucky. Not only did the water keep the debris from traveling further, but the scrap of metal in his body did not pierce any internal organs.

The noise from the explosion set the village into action. Lampan was quickly laid into a boat and taken to the nearest road, where he traveled first by military jeep and later by bus, through most of the night. Finally, at 3 a.m. he reached the hospital. The cost of transportation and two weeks in the hospital set Lampan’s family back over $300 U.S., more money than most Lao families see in a year. Three of the family’s precious cows were sold to pay the debt. “I am happy that we were able to take care of my boy,” Lampan’s father tells us. The security of owning livestock is a luxury beyond the means of many of his friends and neighbours.

And so, if we decide to work with food security in this place, we must first cover the expense of having the rice paddies and river in this area cleared of UXO. The situation is filled with irony. It was North Americans who left behind these deadly souvenirs and now, as a North American relief and development agency we must deal with the consequences. But it is the Lao people who pay the true cost, year after year, in the loss and injury of their animals, friends and families, stretching on into the unseen future.