Adventures in Laos: Elephants, “penis,” and existentialism

What would it take for you to drop everything and move to a third-world country that you’ve never heard of? Why would you leave your whole life behind and travel alone to a foreign land without speaking one word of the language?

For me, it was the painful end of a long-term relationship, cueing an angsty metaphysical crisis, existential turmoil, and other pleasant cups of tea. (I know, pretty cutting-edge stuff.)

If you had called me two years ago and told me that I would move by myself to Southeast Asia, experience a life-changing adventure, discover unprecedented challenges, healing and joy, and fall in love with Laos, I would’ve said “Who’s Laos? And how did you get this number?”

But maybe if you had told me that I would spend the most significant year of my life driving a motorcycle, becoming bilingual, jumping off waterfalls, and eating barbecued dog, I would have believed you.

You see, it was no surprise to friends and family that I decided to volunteer in an impoverished nation trying to find God and heal my broken heart, nor was it a surprise that said country was, to my shame, a place I had never even heard of before. But living on the edge of crazy was just my style, and broadening my horizons was how I embraced this season of life.

It was a surprise, however, that I became a full-time English teacher and community development worker. It was also a surprise that my teaching involved so much dancing! But, as it turned out, there were a few other things I wasn’t expecting on this unforgettable adventure.

Whether it was unanticipated relationships, getting bucked off an elephant into the Mekong River, or becoming intimately acquainted with the squatty-potty, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. My ignorance about the nation of Laos was nothing but advantageous; it let the experience define itself, unencumbered by expectations. Alright, I wasn’t expecting to get bucked off an elephant, but that aside, it was love at first “sa-bai-dee”!

Learning Lao life lessons

The Lao People’s Democratic Republic (Lao PDR, or Laos) is a small developing Buddhist country sandwiched between Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Myanmar, and China. Since Laos is one of the last remaining Communist countries, the natural beauty is largely untouched due to border closures and political tension.

Both the phrases “democratic” and “yes, of course your luggage will arrive” are used very loosely over there. A better acronym for Lao PDR might be “Lao People Don’t Rush.” Despite heinous colonial and wartime abuse, the Lao way of life is laid back, welcoming, and peaceful. In all my years growing up in New Zealand and, later, in Canada, never have I been so enchanted with such gracious and humble people and their value of simplicity.

I fundraised with a Mennonite Central Committee program called SALT (Serving and Learning Together), a cross-cultural exchange program that found me a job and a local host family in the capital, Vientiane, where I lived in a small dusty village often without electricity and always without clean water.

The lack of toilets (to say nothing of toilet paper), paved roads, and household appliances were made up for by the additional presence of ants in my bed and lizards in my shower. No, I’m kidding: there was no shower. Bucket-showers were one of many cultural differences of life, like eating with your hands, sleeping in hammocks, and getting bitten by an obscure insect at least once daily.

I embraced all this with joie de vivre to the point where I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t have ants in my toothbrush, wore makeup, came to work on time, wasn’t sweating, drove a car, wore pants, or slept using blankets. Although I missed air conditioning, tampons, and consistent internet access, I loved living in a land where palm trees are ubiquitous, traffic lights a suggestion, marriage proposals came daily, and beer costs less than one dollar!

I had volunteered in Mexico twice before, so it was never the poverty of Laos that shocked me. Rather, in spite of it, the Lao people were so generous and kind; this underdeveloped nation was far more developed in matters of the heart and what life is truly about. Laos was like medicine for my soul, a cosmic chill-pill; Take once daily with food. Spicy food. If irritation persists, seek extended stay. I spent the year assuaging my grief with mangoes, sunshine, and investing in my village community.

Among the valuable life lessons they taught me was how to kill frogs and eat barbecued dog, buffalo intestine, ant eggs, congealed blood cubes, fish eyeballs, and every part of a chicken you can conceivably consume (head, feet, butt, half-formed fetus, you name it).

Rethinking education

I had expected that after spending 2011 studying philosophy at Camosun, this year away would be a break from school, but my hopes of not setting foot in a classroom for a year were dashed when I was offered a full-time teaching job in two schools. So much for that.

However, I can promise that “school” in Laos is not what you’re picturing… unless you’re picturing 83 screaming children filling a small concrete room, trying out English swear words at me, the air punctuated by the faint smell of urine, and me dancing Gangnam style to captivate my students’ attention in 43 Celsius weather.

Education in Laos drastically differs from North American psychology and technology. Before you complain too much about your semester, imagine for a moment academic enrollment based on your ability to reach your arm around your head and touch the opposite ear. I kid you not, this is the Lao method. I wouldn’t besmirch the good name of entrance exams, but this works just as well, if you ask me.

In contrast to most developed countries, Laos’ education system focuses on the triple treat: corruption, corporal punishment, and the most boring and inapplicable methods imaginable. Observing this, I worked hard to make learning engaging and nurturing within appropriate cultural bounds. Though games, songs, and plenty of high-fives kept my kids smiling all year, I also considered teaching to be moulding the impressionable minds of the future and directly affecting the kind of people they become. So I made it my mission to teach things outside the curriculum, like showing kindness to one another, the value of thinking critically for oneself, and what it means to be joyfully alive.

In my efforts to pave a solid, safe path toward hope, amidst exhaustion and adversity, I discovered that giving myself grace and patience when I made mistakes was just as important as giving it to others, even if that means a lot of crazy dancing… no, especially if that means a lot of crazy dancing.

As well as teaching me to be a good teacher, Laos taught me to be a better student. I never expected to be an international English teacher because I always believed it was inherently wrong to perpetuate the economic monopoly of the English language, depleting other cultures in globalization and assimilation. But it was actually an amazing opportunity to understand traditions, preserve culture, expose realities of North American ideologies, and develop sustainability.

All this through the vulnerability of learning another language bearing no semblance to my mother tongue.

Complications in Lao-glish

My countless embarrassing mistakes on the journey to bilingualism rendered me incapable of expressing myself for the first few months, save for enthusiastic miming and theatrical performances of the animal I wanted to eat in restaurants.

I’d be lying if I said that learning a random Asian language by full immersion wasn’t a challenge. But good thing learning a tonal language is easy, SAID NO ONE EVER. I mean, for crying out loud (and sometimes I did), this monosyllabic language is derived from ancient Sanskrit! Which basically means it looks like calligraphy combining Arabic and hieroglyphics. It also means that I spent a lot of time referring to myself as “penis” due to pronouncing the word for “me” a semitone too high.

There was no end to my faux pas in the hierarchical respect system, whether I was calling someone “pig” instead of “friend,” asking my host sister to marry me instead of go to a wedding with me, or saying “near” when I meant “far.” I clung to my Lao-English dictionary like it was the last plane out of Vietnam. Learning to read and write all over again in a language without spaces or punctuation in a country where no one speaks English was difficult, but I was eventually successful. Eight dialects, six tones, 27 consonants, and 56 vowels later, I became fluent and sounded a lot less like I was coughing up a hairball on each vowel.

Reverse culture shock

Now that I’m back at Camosun, I’m excited about linguistic anthropology, but struggling to adjust to the cultural emphasis on time efficiency, traffic laws, and not picking one’s nose in public.

On my way home, I couldn’t have made my reverse culture shock any worse than I did going straight from rural Southeast Asia to New York City, where I stayed in hostels for a week feeling overwhelmed at all the white people, excess electricity, flushing toilets, eating with a knife and fork, sitting in chairs, and being blessed when I sneezed. It was a miracle to feel paved roads, clean hot water, refrigerators, and the necessity of wearing socks, but swearing, complaining, and consumerism had gone nowhere, unfortunately.

The USA, serving arrogance and entitlement all day, made it obvious how much readjusting I have to do to the priorities of affluent life. If you see me in a 24-hour grocery store staring at the infinite choices of microwaveable food, just know that I’m still a little disoriented. Let’s just say there have been a few times when I left my keys in the freezer and tried to start the car with a bagel.

I don’t find anything interesting between my toes anymore or get to drive the wrong way down a one-way street, but I’m finding ways to appreciate and celebrate Canadian culture. I miss sharing meals sitting on the floor, washing my clothes in the river, and parking my motorcycle in the kitchen. I miss being the tallest person in every room and being proposed to an average of twice a week. Being a white foreigner in Laos was like applying a thick coating of please-stare-at-me cream every morning, so I’m still getting accustomed to no one’s head spinning whenever I walk in to a room, and not getting asked out every hour on the hour.

I continue to laugh at my mistakes and give myself grace, but when I returned I hadn’t spoken English in so long that I fear my writing is about as witty and articulate as a clump of dirt. What is there to say now that I’m no longer running with butterflies, swimming with elephants, sleeping with lizards, praying with monks, and dancing with drunks? (Well, I guess that last one still happens in college.)

Being back at Camosun has shown me how much I missed out on pop culture and current events… and, seriously, what is all the twerking about? I find myself caught between cultures, a little misplaced, lost in liminal space.

After returning to Canada I got a summer job in the only Lao restaurant in town, where I was paid to do my favourite things: speak Lao, eat traditional food, and share my heart for Laos with the local customers. My life in Laos continues to open doors for me both personally and professionally.

Of course I’m not the first person to volunteer in a third-world country in hopes of finding myself. But when I went somewhere unknown to me for a whole year to see what I could do to bless the people there, I ended up being deeply blessed myself. I may not have found God yet, but while I was searching, I found myself on the way.

Though I only have 27 new stamps in my passport, one tattoo, and an elephant-induced knee injury to show for it, I have new beliefs, worldviews, and peace like never before.

Laos is where I found joy in simplicity and freedom from hurt. For me, escaping a dark place meant literally stepping into a very, very bright place… 43 degrees Celsius, in fact. Suffice it to say, I spent a great deal of my time in Laos sweating my problems away. The only time I wasn’t profusely perspiring was when I got Dengue fever and almost shivered to death.

I don’t know where my next adventure will take me, but I want to use all my new skills and perspectives, whether it’s to teach 83 screaming children, to slaughter chickens, or to properly say “I” instead of “penis.”

I found unfathomably amazing things waiting for me when I left it all behind for a journey of service and self-discovery. I learned to expect the unexpected and embrace the season of life, but most importantly I discovered how to love, and what it means to be alive.