Bad things about the rainy season:
All the rain.
Power outages.
Good things about the rainy season:
Foregrounds of super saturated greens and pinks and yellows.
Backgrounds of mountains like humps; distant, dark gray centers with frilly edges of deep blue and green.
Yellow light that makes all the edges quiver.
Big, heavy clouds frozen mid-explosion--clouds with real personality--on, over, above.
The return of the rivers.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Random things from the last few days
My computer resists egg yolk. (I've rediscovered the joys of bread and fried eggs.)
The zither/chant/xylophone extravaganza at the wat is still going strong.
It rains every other day. Everything is blooming. My head is exploding as a result, but it sure is pretty: huge, very strictly conical trees draped as with tinsel by long sprays of little flowers, yellow and purple and fuschia. (Wow. I've never tried to spell fuschia before. I'll take that as a good thing. Also, this is my excuse for, perhaps, misspelling it.)
The little white dogs here are very cute. The mama of the pair has learned to stand on her hind legs and wave her front paws when she wants to be petted. She's very affectionate and always wants to be picked up. When you do, she invariably latches her little teeth--hard--into the skin on the inside of your elbow and starts very seriously humping your hip.
Pictures: Stuff at hand in the last few days.
The zither/chant/xylophone extravaganza at the wat is still going strong.
It rains every other day. Everything is blooming. My head is exploding as a result, but it sure is pretty: huge, very strictly conical trees draped as with tinsel by long sprays of little flowers, yellow and purple and fuschia. (Wow. I've never tried to spell fuschia before. I'll take that as a good thing. Also, this is my excuse for, perhaps, misspelling it.)
The little white dogs here are very cute. The mama of the pair has learned to stand on her hind legs and wave her front paws when she wants to be petted. She's very affectionate and always wants to be picked up. When you do, she invariably latches her little teeth--hard--into the skin on the inside of your elbow and starts very seriously humping your hip.
Pictures: Stuff at hand in the last few days.
Friday, April 22, 2011
This is how you have a bassi
You have to wear a sin, a Lao skirt.
You have to wear a scarf or some piece of fabric over your left shoulder.
There has to be a monk or a holy man.
He prays generally, then specifically, then generally again.
You eat food and drink Beer Lao.
I wore my sin and went to P's house. P works for G and E. His mother in law or mother or aunt—relationships are difficult to specify here—had had a stroke recently and “couldn't move her knee.” The family had had some bad luck recently. A bassi would turn it around. It was small—only his extended family and people from his work.
A holy man (who happened to be the father of one of P's colleagues at the workshop), his wife, and some elders from their village came to P's house. A mat covered the floor. I was given a scarf to drape over my left shoulder, like the other women. (I may have been given the last spare scarf; P's wife was draped with a limp grey towel.) We knelt around a large wicker plate on a stand covered with a pink scarf, with a pyramid in the center draped with marigolds. Long bits of wicker wrapped with string stuck out of the sides of it, and bowls of little rice cake deserts were placed along the bottom. We knelt and touched the plate with one hand while the holy man prayed in Lao or Pali or who knows what.
After the general prayer, the tying of strings began. The holy man, the elders, and then anyone else who wanted to give a blessing tied strings around our wrists. You hold out one hand and hold the other up straight, as though you're praying with one hand. The person tying the string says a prayer for you while tying it. There are different traditions—some just pray, tie, and ask for your other hand. Some grab hold of your hand and shake it afterward. Some rub the string up and down your arm before turning and tying it. After each person ties it, you press your palms together and bow your head. You can be casual with your peers, but for the holy man or the elders you must move more slowly and bow your head more deeply.
After you've crawled around the mat on your knees and submitted to each person who wants to wish you well, you gather around the plate again. Again, you touch the plate with one hand. The holy man prays. When he finishes praying, he hands you one of the sweets underneath. You take a piece, eat it, and put the rest back on the plate. There's another quick prayer. Then everyone grabs for the treats and, munching, wanders outside to tables set with food and beer.
Then, as always in Laos, you drink, eat, and, if you're unlucky, get roped into some line dancing. What a country.
You have to wear a scarf or some piece of fabric over your left shoulder.
There has to be a monk or a holy man.
He prays generally, then specifically, then generally again.
You eat food and drink Beer Lao.
I wore my sin and went to P's house. P works for G and E. His mother in law or mother or aunt—relationships are difficult to specify here—had had a stroke recently and “couldn't move her knee.” The family had had some bad luck recently. A bassi would turn it around. It was small—only his extended family and people from his work.
A holy man (who happened to be the father of one of P's colleagues at the workshop), his wife, and some elders from their village came to P's house. A mat covered the floor. I was given a scarf to drape over my left shoulder, like the other women. (I may have been given the last spare scarf; P's wife was draped with a limp grey towel.) We knelt around a large wicker plate on a stand covered with a pink scarf, with a pyramid in the center draped with marigolds. Long bits of wicker wrapped with string stuck out of the sides of it, and bowls of little rice cake deserts were placed along the bottom. We knelt and touched the plate with one hand while the holy man prayed in Lao or Pali or who knows what.
After the general prayer, the tying of strings began. The holy man, the elders, and then anyone else who wanted to give a blessing tied strings around our wrists. You hold out one hand and hold the other up straight, as though you're praying with one hand. The person tying the string says a prayer for you while tying it. There are different traditions—some just pray, tie, and ask for your other hand. Some grab hold of your hand and shake it afterward. Some rub the string up and down your arm before turning and tying it. After each person ties it, you press your palms together and bow your head. You can be casual with your peers, but for the holy man or the elders you must move more slowly and bow your head more deeply.
After you've crawled around the mat on your knees and submitted to each person who wants to wish you well, you gather around the plate again. Again, you touch the plate with one hand. The holy man prays. When he finishes praying, he hands you one of the sweets underneath. You take a piece, eat it, and put the rest back on the plate. There's another quick prayer. Then everyone grabs for the treats and, munching, wanders outside to tables set with food and beer.
Then, as always in Laos, you drink, eat, and, if you're unlucky, get roped into some line dancing. What a country.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Smoke bad, fire good
The wats are strung with fairy lights and the stupas are ringed with candles because the buddhas have come outside. All the little flames stand out on the unlit main street. The monks drum at unusual times—seven thirty today, in addition to the usual four am and four pm. The buddhas will be washed with water from gold bowls--ladies have been carrying them around town on motorbikes all day, riding sidesaddle, wearing their best sins.
The moon is nearly full. With all the smoke in the sky, it looks blurry and rusted.
The moon is nearly full. With all the smoke in the sky, it looks blurry and rusted.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Get behind me, Satan
Today these things happened
I dreamed about rats and woke up with a millipede on my pillow.
I got rid of the millipede, jumped away from the big brown spider on my doorframe, and went back to bed.
Today is Pi Mai day. The big parade that marched down the main road into Wat Xien Thong, the oldest temple around here, today marched back out. Out again went all the regiments—ethnic minorities in black with silver ropes and beads and polygonal headdresses; Lao loum girls in metallic sins and gold sashes marching with parasol-bearing minders to defend their tight topknots and heavy makeup from the water chucked by the proles on both sides. Borne along were big, professional signs announcing awards given to Luang Prabang—“Environmentally Sustainable City Award 2008” was one, though there were others. 2008 seemed to be a big year for LP. The fact that it's 2011? Bo pen ngang. (I'm pretty it's neither according to the traditional Lao calendar.)
It was hot again today, hotter than yesterday; the sun heated even the cold water we poured down each other's backs so quickly that after shivering for a second we were again standing on the street soaked and steaming. It was a day to be immersed. I walked a block down to the brown Mekong with some friends from the guesthouse. We descended the long royal staircase that led from the old wat to the water—usually jammed with boats, it was wonderfully empty, the boatmen having decided to celebrate by drinking Beer Lao on dry land. My long skirt ballooned around me like a big, striped jellyfish until it sank and stuck to my legs and threatened to pull me under. I knotted it up into a loincloth. Bathing suits would be unseemly.
I came home, I read a book, I waited for the sun to go down and the water fighters to retire. I went to the night market to pick up food. As I was waiting, someone groped me. It was very delicate, very precise, and very cowardly—done by a grown man passing by at the same time as some kids. I wasn't quick enough to grab him, but I shouted—that may be too strong a word—something angry and obscene and followed the person I thought was the culprit to his motor bike. Had I been sure at the time, maybe I would have done something better/dumber, but I was still trying to work out what happened, and while I became confirmed in my suspicion by the fact that he wouldn't look at me while he put on his helmet and rode away, I didn't end up with enough time to do something spectacular like...ah, well. I don't know what. Smashing his wrist with a hammer would be satisfying. If I had a hammer.
So, seething, I walked my bike out toward the night market exit, only to find my path blocked by a wandering drum/dance troop. I was, of course, furious about this added insult. But the performance was just joyful—a group of white-clad men and women, trailing red and blue and yellow scarves, jumped and twirled in unison while keeping up complicated beats on the different drums strapped across their chests. A woman wearing a wraparound mask of four faces seemed to be a central figure. The men were tall and some had facial hair—they weren't Lao. Without my glasses I couldn't tell where they were from...maybe Chinese? The phrases I heard them use were in English. They kept at it long enough for me to calm down and decide that this little artistic eruption was an example of taking the good with the bad. I ended up sanguine enough to buy a few presents for folks back home on my way out of the market. I didn't even bargain that hard.
I dreamed about rats and woke up with a millipede on my pillow.
I got rid of the millipede, jumped away from the big brown spider on my doorframe, and went back to bed.
Today is Pi Mai day. The big parade that marched down the main road into Wat Xien Thong, the oldest temple around here, today marched back out. Out again went all the regiments—ethnic minorities in black with silver ropes and beads and polygonal headdresses; Lao loum girls in metallic sins and gold sashes marching with parasol-bearing minders to defend their tight topknots and heavy makeup from the water chucked by the proles on both sides. Borne along were big, professional signs announcing awards given to Luang Prabang—“Environmentally Sustainable City Award 2008” was one, though there were others. 2008 seemed to be a big year for LP. The fact that it's 2011? Bo pen ngang. (I'm pretty it's neither according to the traditional Lao calendar.)
It was hot again today, hotter than yesterday; the sun heated even the cold water we poured down each other's backs so quickly that after shivering for a second we were again standing on the street soaked and steaming. It was a day to be immersed. I walked a block down to the brown Mekong with some friends from the guesthouse. We descended the long royal staircase that led from the old wat to the water—usually jammed with boats, it was wonderfully empty, the boatmen having decided to celebrate by drinking Beer Lao on dry land. My long skirt ballooned around me like a big, striped jellyfish until it sank and stuck to my legs and threatened to pull me under. I knotted it up into a loincloth. Bathing suits would be unseemly.
I came home, I read a book, I waited for the sun to go down and the water fighters to retire. I went to the night market to pick up food. As I was waiting, someone groped me. It was very delicate, very precise, and very cowardly—done by a grown man passing by at the same time as some kids. I wasn't quick enough to grab him, but I shouted—that may be too strong a word—something angry and obscene and followed the person I thought was the culprit to his motor bike. Had I been sure at the time, maybe I would have done something better/dumber, but I was still trying to work out what happened, and while I became confirmed in my suspicion by the fact that he wouldn't look at me while he put on his helmet and rode away, I didn't end up with enough time to do something spectacular like...ah, well. I don't know what. Smashing his wrist with a hammer would be satisfying. If I had a hammer.
So, seething, I walked my bike out toward the night market exit, only to find my path blocked by a wandering drum/dance troop. I was, of course, furious about this added insult. But the performance was just joyful—a group of white-clad men and women, trailing red and blue and yellow scarves, jumped and twirled in unison while keeping up complicated beats on the different drums strapped across their chests. A woman wearing a wraparound mask of four faces seemed to be a central figure. The men were tall and some had facial hair—they weren't Lao. Without my glasses I couldn't tell where they were from...maybe Chinese? The phrases I heard them use were in English. They kept at it long enough for me to calm down and decide that this little artistic eruption was an example of taking the good with the bad. I ended up sanguine enough to buy a few presents for folks back home on my way out of the market. I didn't even bargain that hard.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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