From soldier to motorcycle guide in modern Vietnam

From soldier to motorcycle guide in modern Vietnam 

By David Calleja, 21 Dec, 2008

 http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2008/12/21/former-vietnamese-soldier-shares-his-war-stories-for-friendship/

From the roadside on a hilltop overlooking a cornfield and a disused bridge with a large gap in the middle that once linked the two ends, Van's face grew serious as he transformed from being a professional motorcycle guide and historian to a soldier recreating a bloody battlefield in the 1970s, following the withdrawal of American forces from Vietnam. He was a young man fighting for the U.S. backed Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN), defending against the National Liberation Forces of South Vietnam, or the Viet Cong.   

"The bridge you see over there," he started, simultaneously pointing to my left and gesturing to the structure approximately 300 metres away, "is Phu Yao Bridge. It was destroyed by North Vietnam bomb during the war. I was in a battle here once, a very big fight that went for 3 days. Sometimes I still hear the shelling at night when I am sleeping and I wake up thinking I am still in combat."  

"What did the fields look like back then?" I asked.  

"You see the corn fields ahead," Van continued, "no crops existed back when I fought here. It was all bare earth and surrounded by landmines, and we were caught in the middle of a Viet Cong ambush."  When I quizzed Van as to whether he was caught on the same grounds when the attack started, he elaborated further.  

"I was platoon leader. Initially I was stationed in the bunker with my troops 200 metres from the bridge, but when the fighting started, my job was to get to the tower, take cover and fire my bazooka at the enemy. I simply wanted to kill as many of them as possible." Van averted my eyes to a bullet riddled brick structure that was partially destroyed, but like many relics from the Vietnam War era, is still standing. The government, in its attempt to provide a living history lesson as well as attract the tourist dollars from visitors flocking to the country, sees the benefits from cashing in on the legacy of the country's bloody civil conflict that killed millions of Vietnamese, as well as instilling national pride and simultaneously reminding the world of Vietnam's resilience.  

"The enemy were approaching from the Cambodian jungle where they had sought refuge. Most of my soldiers were stranded following a siege as part of the Phu Yao insurgence, so my job was to rescue as many ARVN guys as possible, and drive the Viet Cong away."

“Did it work? How many enemy soldiers did you kill?" I chimed in.  

Phu Ya Bridge (Photo: David Calleja)

"Yes it worked, and I did shoot enemy fighters during battle. But when you are in a life-or-death situation and you want to avoid being hit, numbers and logic do not matter. You just want to survive." Van told me. Around 200 men were killed in the battle.  

 

While I stopped to take some pictures of the original bridge, Van told me about his life as a soldier and the aftermath of war in his shoes. After finishing school at 17, he enlisted with the South Vietnamese or Republican Forces, and backed by the Americans, served a number of years as a soldier and marine in the Central and South Central highlands. He was also stationed on Vietnam's central coast, stretching all the way up to the former Demilitarised Zone (DMZ). 

Once the war ended in 1975 after Saigon fell, Van was arrested and served time inside a concentration camp, toiling for long hours on the farm during the day. For 3 years, Van was surrounded by barbed wire and along with other Prisoners of War (POWs) attended nightly re-education classes designed to remove any existing prejudice Van had previously held about the reunification of a socialist Vietnam.   

Van admits to frequently being tortured during his term of imprisonment but chose to remain silent when it came to diverging specific details, stating that it was standard for everybody to undergo some form of punishment before reconciliation. Upon completing his full sentence, he continued to farm under the close eye of Communist Party officials for a further 5 years, but in 1992, Vietnam re-integrated with the international community. Employment prospects were limited, so Van decided to ride motorcycles and earn an income by transporting residents within and around Dalat. However, he was banned from contacting and maintaining friendships with foreigners for many years.  

Along with a handful of other war veterans, Van became one of the founding members of Easy Riders in 1998. Free Riders are a group of freelance motorcyclists offering a personalised method of viewing, interacting with and breathing in Vietnam, its language, culture and people. Van sees his war legacy experience as a positive attribute, and uses his knowledge to take tourists and give them a first-hand account of life in Vietnam.

"There are many people who claim to be an Easy Rider member but I know who the fakes are." Van says. "They don't have uniforms, registered identity cards or the memories and nightmares of what we endured. We are a brotherhood. Some of the pretenders are either scammers or new recruits in the police force. The young officers are actively encouraged to join in by their superiors, and younger officers do not disobey orders if they wish to advance their career and get a higher ranking in the force."  

"Is it because they can also get a second income?" I asked.  

"Yes, but it means that any individual looking suspicious can be watched closely." added Van. This is especially applicable in the northern part of the country where some suspicion of outsiders is still apparent years after the war reached its completion.  

Later in the day, after riding through the South Central Highlands for several hours and passing vast lands of rice fields and tea plantations, we stopped at a war memorial honouring fallen Vietnamese soldiers who had died defending their land and beliefs by fighting the French, America and their allies, and each other between 1954 and 1975. Fifteen million Vietnamese soldiers died in this 21 year period. "The government got all of the bodies that they found after the war and dumped them in one grave site,'' Van told me after I had returned from climbing the hill, passing the graves and taking some time to pause at a giant silver coloured lotus flower statue and reflect on the legacy of numerous battles played out on Vietnamese soil.     

Speaking with Van gave me a deeper appreciation of the experiences of Vietnamese people who lived through an environment and whose vision centred around getting through battlefields and being appreciative of surviving each day, let alone dreaming of their futures in a post-war scenario that seemed distant. His manner of re-telling war stories was calm, measured and rarely animated, and the way he would conclude his lessons with emphasising how everyone learnt to forget about hatred of ideological differences for the sake of the country, seemed to reflect thoughts I held about the pride Vietnamese felt in overcoming adversity and getting on with life.   

But Van also shared the darker side of the military life, and pointed out that intense rivalries between allied soldiers fighting on the same side in territory safe from incoming raids and gunfire could be as damaging as being in the line of fire during combat.

“I was in a bar one time drinking with my platoon. There were American and South Korean soldiers present too.” Van told me. “They were belittling us Vietnamese, saying that we were poorer soldiers because we did not get paid as much money as them. In the beginning, I stayed calm and just ignored them, but then the U.S. soldiers started pointing me out. I wanted to go after them because they were saying demeaning things about Vietnamese people."  

For the first time, I noticed an increase in his voice's intensity and he closed his eyes, flashing back to the exact moment. "One guy started bragging that our women were dirty whores. Some of his platoon joined in, and then it became a competition about how many women they could have sex with in one night. Then four or five Americans came over and wanted to fight me."   I was beginning to sense a climax but what happened took me completely by surprise.   Van cleared his throat, and raised the tone in his voice.

"Suddenly I had enough. I could not hold myself back any longer. From my weapons stock, I pulled out a hand grenade and took out the pin. All the American and Korean soldiers started screaming and ran out of the bar when I started counting. Four of my own men held me down and then frantically worked to put the pin back in the grenade before the 7 seconds were up. Otherwise, it would have exploded.”  

Van admitted that he remained mad for a long time after the incident and it took him a long time to finally resolve his personal issues related to fighting in the war. Vietnam lost many fine men, but he lost many friends.  

His final admission about life during conflict stuck with me long after I left Vietnam. "War reduces the humanity in us, and it is even worse when you are fighting against your own countrymen because they see things a little differently than you do. Back then I was an angry young man and truly believed that these people I was fighting against were not like me, they were evil."   I asked him about his modern day perspective.   "Now the same people that once wore a different uniform, saluted to a separate flag have only one interest, love, an allegiance that we all subscribe to. Peace and friendship in my Vietnam."

From soldier to motorcycle guide in modern Vietnam

Coaching the Loi Tailang Tigers

by David Calleja, 12 January 2009

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/01/12/coaching-the-loi-tailang-tigers/



Team training at the IDP camp in Loi Tailang, Shan State. Image: David Calleja



“Football is war minus the guns,” declared George Orwell in reflecting upon his lack of sporting prowess while attending Eton College in the early part of the 20th century.
For the hundreds of orphans residing within the male dormitories at Loi Tailang Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp in Shan State, Burma, football is the fantasy escape from the memories of conflict and forced removal from their family homes which has seen boys removed from the care of their parents.

Encouraged to get an education as an alternative to joining the Shan State Army, the only lethal shooting performed by boys aged between 10 and 25 years would be achieved courtesy of their deadly accurate feet and an imitation leather ball on the makeshift dusty football pitch overlooking the dense forest. While each student has more than likely experienced the loss of relatives as a result of the frequent incursions into their village homes by the Burmese military junta, not every person is an orphan in the strictest sense. Some have lost their mothers and fathers, some one parent and others have lost whole families. There are students that have simply been away from home for so long, their own relatives may no longer recognize them. The fate of some parents is unknown and some have gone years without knowing whether their mother or father may have been murdered or remain alive.

Parents shift from one village to the next in search of food and work in relative safety, trying to remain out of sight from the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) troops ruling Burma with an iron fist. The diverse ethnic minority residents of Shan State attending either the primary or high schools located on the Burma-Thai border three kilometers away have bonded together because without family support, all they have is each other.

The other attribute they have in common is a love of the world game, football. Every day after attending classes, studying for upcoming exams, and well as completing all required domestic chores, up to 30 students gather to play football on the large pothole-filled dusty track that leads up the mountain. If the ball happens to go out of play, there is race on amongst the players to prevent the ball from rolling down the steep hill and dropping approximately 200 meters down the cliff face where only one walking trail exists.

To the right-hand side, younger children have their own smaller pitch to undertake their games. And squeal with delight as they chase a ball around a pit 20 approximately meters long and 10 meters wide.

With all kindergarten classes finished for 2 months, and having recently moved into the teacher's quarters of the male dormitories, several older students approached me with a special request, one that took me by complete surprise.

“Teacher David, every night our school team plays here, but we do not have anyone to train us. Please be our coach.”

Before I had a chance to even consider the request, I was immediately surrounded by 20 students of all sizes aged between 10 and 23 years old. The decision was practically pre-determined prior to me being asked, so I considered this as an honour, in spite of my lack of ability with the ball. However, my responsibilities now extended to being the most confident person anywhere near the ball, and this had to rub off on anybody interested in playing. Otherwise, there would be no interest.

In Loi Tailing, several males in their late teens and early 20s are still at school completing their basic education. Back in their homelands, attending school was considered impossible because of constantly being on the run from the military junta, or taking on the task of looking after the family farm, tending to the crops and buffaloes, or simply being disallowed from turning up at all by the SPDC. Shan language is banned from being taught at all schools in Shan State by the military authorities, but every student can safely learn their native Shan tongue. Each grade contains a great disparity in ages amongst students. Students can take advantage of the chance to go to school rather than move from their villages into towns, on the run from persecution and being captured by the SPDC to become porters and worked until exhaustion and death.

In the squad of players standing before me, a handful of students never went to school until their 16th birthday just so the family could continue to live. One squad member commented that his mother, if still alive, would not recognize him because he left his homeland so long ago and to risk a return would heighten the possibility of arrest and torture for being associated with the Shan State Army, or SSA.

Motivating a team that really does want to improve is not difficult. Football is a game that brings people of all walks of life together even in the most adverse circumstances. The challenge is to find effective strategies that assist with improving ball skills and fitness in isolation and gradually incorporate them into a fully fledged match. Also, exercises have to be fun. The life for students here is difficult and considering the hardships faced in living, attending classes, affording school materials and keeping abreast of all other tasks, recreational pursuits should involve learning and laughing. Nobody was expecting me to be a supercoach. The students wanted somebody they could enjoy their favorite pastime with. While teaching in the classroom requires measurements such as testing to demonstrate effectiveness of communication and teaching capabilities, sporting activities involve predominately listening and watching. However, in both cases, keeping and maintaining their attention is the key to a successful session. That means simple explanations, less non-essential talking, and short drills that constantly change before boredom sets in.

In a 60 minute session, the squad and I would open up with a warm-up lap around the perimeter of the orphan dormitories. I viewed my participation as a means of encouraging everybody to do their best, although I deliberately stayed behind the pack. We were all being watched by interested on-lookers, curious as to why a farang (foreigner) was barking out instructions in a fun nature like an army general. One group of students played rakktan with a bamboo ball and string for a net on a small makeshift court next to one dormitory; another group played a form of bocce with disused and leaking batteries, and men and women trudged up the mountain and cut through the open path, weary from their day in the forest hunting wild animals, and collecting vegetables, firewood and bamboo tree leaves.

Setting a maximum number of six exercises, each between five and ten minutes in length, I improvised for a lack of equipment that I would normally have access to. Any tasks involving running were shorter than ball control exercises because of the impact of the hard surface on players' legs. Everybody played without shoes, which to me represented resilience and aversion to pain. Also, there was no tackling. Firstly, the risk of injury was simply too great (although anybody who did fall and graze themselves or sustain a slight knock simply got up again); secondly, it went against the spirit of the game; but most importantly, for students to instigate confrontation and fight would make life in the dormitories exceedingly difficult and result in a loss of face.

In the open-aired environment, I felt no pressure to achieve miracles, as one would normally be expected when teaching English in a classroom. Whatever materials were available in the yard would become my coaching tools. To compensate for a whiteboard and marker, I would draw simple diagrams in the dirt with a stick, using x to represent a player, o for their opponent and a line to represent the direction of the ball or player in drills. This simple yet effective method provided the background for instructions such as “I want everyone in two lines”, or to highlight positioning. I picked out team members that I observed were confident with English speaking to take my simple instructions and translate them in Shan language for the benefit of everybody else, and demonstrated key terms in English such as pass, cross, shoot, 5 yards, man-on and one-two. Logs of firewood substituted for orange witches hats to practice ball dribbling skills and older students voluntarily offered their shirts to be used as goalposts. Players were even encouraged to choose their own nicknames in English so I could call them out and remember their faces. Consequently, the team contained three members named Rambo, whom I labeled Rambo I, Rambo II and Rambo III.

This makeshift football pitch on a mountainside located in a village barely recognizable on the map was my de facto open-aired classroom, and the team of orphans were my students. A few months before, I had been working in South Korea as an English teacher, using my laptop to design lesson plans, play DVDs and prepare Powerpoint presentations for multimedia displays. I could not have picked two differing scenarios.

Although my textbook drills were not always working out the way I had originally planned, one of the best exercises I came up with to reinforce agility and quick movement of the feet also ended up being one of the funniest.

Laying eight logs vertically one after the other approximately half a meter apart, players ran through one by one and returned to their original starting point, starting with a slow jog and then gradually increasing their speed. Then I changed the nature of the exercise by slowing narrowing the gaps and reducing the time in which everyone had to pass through. “If I see anybody move any of the logs, the entire team stops and the offender has to sing 'I Believe I Can Fly,'” I instructed, followed by an example where I deliberately tripped on one of the logs and proceeded to sing. Roars of laughter appeared from the squad, who were keen to see a foreigner embarrass himself and not feel so awkward in case they were caught out. Only three players made the same mistake as me.

Changing the emphasis to teamwork, everybody linked up in a circle and ran through the obstacle. Whenever somebody tripped up, squad members would quickly point out who broke the chain and subsequently call the guilty parties to the front to sing good-naturedly. This exercise created a bond between the players and myself, but in addition broke what I thought was a major barrier by overcoming hesitation to perform in public, a skill that is necessary for them to one day to speak out about the plight of the people living in the IDP camp.

The final 20 minutes before sundown would be devoted to a fully fledged game as a way of letting everybody play their natural game and serve as a reminder for everyone to feel comfortable, enjoy the experience and play their natural style. At the end of the game, I called everyone together for a group huddle.

I asked, “What do you want to call your team?”

Several suggestions came up, and finally everybody agreed upon Loi Tailang Tigers.

When I queried the choice of animal, 'Rambo I', who was 22 years old and completing high school, explained with the aide of a translator, “The Shan animal is the tiger. In life, we are tigers fighting the Burmese army. They have caged us, but we can still roar. One day, when we are free, they will run scared.”

Another player added, “Tonight we all study for Shan language exams, so we feel proud to learn our language and history, and practice our culture here.” I came to realize that everybody is making the best of their allotment in this less than forgiving environment that few people outside of their own village are aware of. Being part of this football team and partaking in drills and having somebody guide them, even if only temporarily, creates an identity that results in belonging to an association, much like the SSA band together for a common cause.

With a final shout of “One, two, three, TIGERS ROAR!” led by me and followed instinctively by the team, we all clapped to congratulate each other for finishing training, ran a lap together and then, with the sun fading behind the distant hills, the Loi Tailang Tigers transformed back into students, eating and washing dishes collectively, before settling down to study for the following day's exam by candlelight in their dormitories.

In an ideal world, football would be their beacon of peace in a land seemingly hidden from the eyes of the international community, where far too many young people have been exposed to a lifetime of war and the trail of physical and psychological damage left in its wake. For these young men, returning home to find peace, loved ones, and freedom is the cup of life.

Experiencing Health Care in Rural Laos

Experiencing Health Care in Rural Laos

By David Calleja,

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/01/experiencing-health-care-in-rural-laos/

The Bolevan Plateau in southern Laos is reknowned for its vast plantations of tea and coffee.

 

In the village of Kok Phong Tai, a short, softly spoken 40 year old man with leathery skin appears from behind an upright bamboo pole which is used to hold buffaloes earmarked as a sacrifice for village weddings. He slowly slinks up to me and begins tugging at my arm with a hint of urgency and desperation. Pointing to a window in a hut on stilts in the background, he places his palms together, raises his fingertips to the heavens and whispers, "Please help my wife."

 

Following the completion of these words, a stocky woman painfully climbs down the stairs of her hut and moved towards me. Each step seems to be a struggle. I stand perfectly still and smile nervously, unsure what to expect and how I should react. When she reaches within 10 metres sight of me, any doubts as to why she looks apprehensive are immediately dispelled. A large lump the size of a tennis ball appears inside her mouth and upon closer examination, it is obvious that she has had difficulty in obtaining treatment because of her location and psychological state of mind. This is her venture outdoors in over a month.

 

My guide and translator for the afternoon, Phu Khaen, is sitting down and listening carefully to the scenario, and slowly begins to feed news back to me so that I can inform everybody else travelling with me that afternoon, four other Dutch nationals, of the situation's seriousness. Throughout the conversation, the husband relayed the details in Lao, and his wife made inaudible grunting noises because it was the only way she could communicate without grimacing in pain.

 

About three months ago, she developed a minor irritation on the upper part of her gum. Instead of seeking treatment to prevent the infection from growing larger, the woman picked at the sore with her fingers and used sticky rice as a remedy to treat the infection and accompanying itchiness. For some months nothing happened and it appeared that nothing more would become of the incident. However, the growth returned with a vengeance and not only grew on her gums, but also spread to the back of her head and neck.

 

Upon the completion of the story, Phu Khaen and myself were surrounded by members of the woman's family.  Several children had bloated stomachs. In Laos, malnourishment is a serious problem amongst children, and according to the World Food Programme, 40 per cent of child in the country have stunted growth due to malnourishment as a result of not having enough to eat. Seventy per cent of Laos' population survive on less than 40 cents per day.

 

"Has the lady seen a doctor about the infection?" I asked.

 

Phu Khaen shook his head solemnly. "No, they cannot afford the cost of transportation and treatment, and the next round of free basic village check-ups will not be for another year."  

 

Laos is a country of 5.1 million people, 80 per cent of whom reside in the rural area. Life expectancy is 59 years of age, one of the lowest in Asia. There is a strong belief in the use of traditional medicines and it is now being incorporated into the public health system and newly emerging private practice. The first private hospital is due to open in Laos some time in 2009. 

 

An investigation into the use of traditional medicine in the province of Champassack by Sydara et al (2005) reveals that faith and practice in traditional medicine is quite common due to the lack of affordability and accessibility to pharmaceutical products. In 2007, the World Health Report indicated that total health expenditure in Laos reached $USD19 per capita per person. Households contribute 80 per cent of this figure, 10 per cent comes from donors and 10 per cent is provided by the government. Lack of household affordability for treatment seems to be a long standing phenomenon.

 

Back in 1997-98, total drug expenditure amounted to $USD6 per capita per person in Laos, with the government allocating $USD1 million in the budget for drugs, or 20 cents per capita per person. Nowadays, hospitalisation and drug costs are still too expensive for the average working family in Laos. The result is that serious ailments go untreated. Although the public health system covers fees of the poorest families, individuals with seriously ill conditions such as the woman in Kok Phong Tai must also overcome psychological factors in getting to hospital, far from their families in the village. Nor does it give an accurate representation of the struggles faced by families working on farming plantations such as tea and coffee.

 

The cost of hiring a tuk-tuk to make the two hour journey from Kok Phong Tai to the nearest town of Pakse takes 2 hours and costs the equivalent of a week's salary. The woman in this instance had not worked on the family coffee farm for 3 months since the emergence of this growth inside her mouth.

 

With the cost of pharmaceutical medicines high for regular families, increasing numbers of people have instilled their faith in traditional medicines such as herbs and plant roots, which are administered by a village healer. Field studies conducted by Sydara et al involved a survey of 460 residents throughout Champasak Province and centered around the use of traditional medicines to treat illnesses and conditions. Nearly 50 per cent of participants stated that they used traditional medicine only to treat fever, gastritis, diarrhoea and malaria. A similar number of people surveyed used a combination of both traditional and modern medicine to treat such illnesses (Sydara et al, 2005.)  The findings suggest that residents profess some belief in the work undertaken by traditional healers substituting for health professionals in the absence of trained medical personnel. In 2005, the ratio of professional health workers employed by the government to the population was number at 3.21 employees per 1,000 residents. in 2005, the average annual salary of a health worker in Laos was $USD405, or under $USD8 per week.

 

For this woman to have any chance of improving her quality of life, and at least finding out about her condition, the four Dutch nationals that accompanied me to Kok Phong Tai village developed a plan to have treatment organized in the nearest large town of Pakse. This meant dealing with an ethical dilemma and the real possibility that a terminal illness may be confirmed, and the task of informing the woman's family would not fall upon a group of strangers that could walk away and deal with a guilty conscience, but upon the woman or her husband that had to actually deliver the news in Lao. As a team, we attempted to justify our action plan by arguing that early intervention and action is better than living with a potentially deadly medical secret. 

 

The second issue of taking the woman from her village into a major town for an examination without immediate treatment and permission also weighed heavily on the minds of everyone. The compromised solution was to request a photo of the offending visible symptom. This image would be taken to a private pharmacy or the hospital in the hope that all five of us (The four Dutchmen and myself) could return to the village the following day with some medicine to commence treatment. If we could somehow obtain the necessary medicine, it would eliminate all associated fears in taking a petrified woman from her home village into a large town, away from the security offered from the darkness of the family home.

 

At this stage, nobody had in fact figured about how to return to Kok Phong Tai the following day, or if any tuk-tuk would indeed be available.

 

The greatest obstacle was legal responsibility in the case of any unforseen consequences arising. With nobody having a medical background, a list of clauses was drawn up, similar to a contract and signed by the 5 foreigners taking part (4 Dutch nationals and myself.) These points set the conditions for providing any assistance, and included the following:

 

1) The five foreigners involved will pay for petrol spent for 2 return trips between Pakse and Kok Phong Tai and for the cost of one X-ray to be taken at Pakse Hospital;

2) In the event of an operation being deemed necessary by a medical authority, the foreigners would not be held responsible for any medical malpractice or for any accident occurring during the transportation between Kok Phong Tai and Pakse and;

3) The parties will not be responsible for any raised expectations on behalf of the patient or her family as a result of any errors in translation between the English and Lao languages or vice versa.

 

Even the best of intentions require some form of legal agreement.

 

Upon returning to Pakse that same evening, the Dutch team and myself walked around the town of Pakse, raising money by requesting as many donations from all foreigners in the city centre. The ultimate aim was to pay for not only the x-ray, but for all medication and hospital after care. Initially we budgeted for an overnight stay following the operation, although we were prepared to accept the possibility of a much longer stay if doctors requested time to monitor the recuperation process. Within three hours, a total amount of $USD195 was raised. The vast majority of donors expressing sympathy for the plight of the woman, but not everybody believed in the necessity of donating aid, with some criticisms being directed over the provisions of a band-aid solution that would not actually benefit the family in the long run and encourage a cycle of dependency.   

 

As expected, coaxing the lady to attend a hospital in a major town required extra assistance. Covering our bases, we were accompanied the following day by two uniformed police officers, invited to help transport the patient and provide "protection for the foreigners." Later in the day, I learned of why the officers insisted upon coming along; to place psychological pressure on the woman and her family to accept any assistance being offered to her through gentle persuasion, and prevent her from having a change of heart by refusing to come along to seek treatment.

 

Eventually, the lady did agree to accompany us with her husband in tow. He carried several blankets and clothing items, and it seems that he was prepared for a lengthy stay, as well as providing moral support. As the tuk-tuk made its way along the bumpy roads, he sought to smother his wife's nose with a rag containing methylated spirits for short lengths of time. This helped to contain her painful screams as a result of the growth inside her mouth. For that afternoon, the discomfort showed on everybody's faces showed; the husband spent much of his time praying to Buddha as he tried to comfort his wife.

 

Inside Pakse Hospital, the doctor confirmed with us that the woman had an infection with her cheek muscle. He immediately announced that there would be no need for an x-ray and set to work at the operating table, making an incision where an operation would take place. Following the operation, and most probably against the husband's wishes, the lady was ordered to have a 10 day resting period, firstly in the traumatology unit alongside victims of motorcycle accidents, amputees and patients waiting for skin grafts, then intensive care, and finally in a private ward.  Just having located a bed within the hospital proved to be an achievement. In 2005, the World Health Organization reported that just over 5,000 beds were available throughout Laos, with the country in the grip of a bed shortage, and it seems that the situation had changed little over the time that I was in the country, something most evident in Pakse Hospital.  

 

The resulting breakdown of costs is as follows, with the exchange rate at the time being 8,800 Lao Kip to $1 U.S. Dollar.

 

Transport - 550,000 Kip

Hospital surgery after care and initial 1 night stay - 260,000 Kip

Extra 10 days hospital accommodation - 500,000 Kip

 

TOTAL COST - 1,310,000 Kip ($USD150)

 

The remaining $45 was donated to a local village school for minority groups in Kok Phong Tai.

 

Since the operation, news has filtered through that the woman has since returned to the family tea and coffee plantations near her home village. Giving the gift of renewed hope towards recommencing a livelihood needs never hold any boundaries.

Experiencing Health Care in Rural Laos

Appeasing The Monk and Cultivating The Cynic

Appeasing The Monk and Cultivating The Cynic

February 20, 2009
by David Calleja

 http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/20/appeasing-the-monk-and-cultivating-the-cynic/

One of the least talked about topics in rural Cambodia in the company of strangers is politics. An exception to this rule is when the discussion focuses on history and whether Cambodia’s sovereignty is threatened by a traditional neighboring enemy, Vietnam or Thailand. This is where everybody has an opinion deemed worthy of declaring in public, and even the figures least likely to speak out become vocal. 

In Cambodia, monks are afforded a level of respect that most publicly elected officials with all of the relative power and wealth at their disposal can only dream of. It is not uncommon for males of elementary school age to commence a period of time as a novice monk, learning the importance of discipline in daily life, before deciding whether to devote a portion of their adulthood adhering to Buddhist teachings; or in some cases, cultivating the inner political cynic within.  

A popular ground for young monks to congregate is Phnom Chisor in Sla village, 30 minutes from the town of Takeo. It contains an ancient Khmer temple built in the 11th century by the Khmer king Suryavarman I, which overlooks all surrounding villages. At the base of the mountain, one monk slowly approached me, hoping to engage in a conversation. He looked about 20 years of age and wore robes covered in dirt and dust. The local police chief passing by on his motorbike slowed to literally a crawl and lowered his gold-rimmed sunglasses, feigning some interest in the ensuing dialogue, before speeding off.  

The monk, who later introduced himself as Soporm, asked me if I was interested in climbing the numerous steps to the summit, which I declined by saying that I was waiting for a moto. He then proceeded to give me something of a short history of the temple and the mountain’s importance in the region. Locals say that it is older than Angkor Wat, Cambodia’s symbol of pride that appears on the national flag. However, Phnom Chisor is in the shadows of its globally famous counterpart, and is not mentioned in the news as often as Preah Vihear, the temple on Cambodia’s northern borders that is the subject of a border dispute with Thailand.  

In between several nervous smiles, I asked, “How long have you been a monk?” 

“Since I was 18 years old. I am 21 now. I still have the same robes,” he replied as he directed my eyes to the fraying edges dragging along the dusty road. “I have never had enough money to buy more clothes. My family is very poor and lives in Pursat. I live inside a monastery on the main road.” 

I quizzed him as to how often he visited Phnom Chisor. 

“Only on special occasions such as Pchum Ben (Ancestors Day, when Cambodians pay respects to the ghosts of their deceased relatives by throwing rice near the temples and offering cooked meals to monks). Some monks come here every day, but I am too lazy,” he replied. 

With a grin, I added “I cannot imagine any monk being lazy. You are up daily before the sun rises to commence your chores and chanting.”  

Soporm went on, adding, “Other men, including my friends the same age as me, have the good life with their friends, going to Phnom Penh, attending university. Their parents did not pressure them to enter the monastery. I want this free lifestyle too, but my family thinks that being a monk is more important because to them, I will live a cleaner life.” 

Like every young man, he wanted to explore life, and seeing the relative freedom that I possessed in being able to travel to Cambodia probably only fuelled his ambitions. Was becoming a monk a step in the natural progression towards manhood in Cambodia, or was this more of an appeasement for elders? 

“Is this something that you really want to do?” I asked. 

Soporm shook his head. “No. I have other dreams.” He went on further and outlined his vision. “I want to be a politician when I am older.”  

Never had I encountered anybody who openly talked about politics, let alone declare their willingness to enter this profession. It was even more remarkable coming from a monk, the same person whom even public officials such as politicians and mayors were keen to remain onside with, for the sake of gaining the support of residents.  

Surprised by his forthright declaration, I asked, “Why do you want to enter politics?”  

“Because people would then have to come begging to me.” 

“But they already do. With this robe, you are granted more respect than most people in this country,” I interrupted.  

“Maybe, but I cannot cash in that respect and get some money for myself and do much more with my life. If I were a politician, I would not have to beg for money, food or clothing. It would be much easier to ask for things without having to justify my reasons. You look like you have never been poor, David, so maybe it is difficult for you to understand.”  

With the closure of the previous sentence, he had me cornered, but I did not give up hope. “Then you would have to make a choice between sticking with principles or being more interested in personal gain,” I added. 

“Yes, I know it would be difficult,” Soporm began to say. “But there are monks my age that have tattoos on their bodies and smoke cigarettes.”  

The last thing I would have wanted is sow the seeds of frustration. Turning attention to the election due to be held in the same month (July 2008), I asked Soporm, “What do you think of the battle between Cambodia and Thailand over the Preah Vihear Temple?” 

“There is no issue over Preah Vihear. The people that run this country make it an issue because they do not want people to blame them for so much poverty. Sometimes the government forgets that there are Cambodians that live outside of Phnom Penh,” declared Soporm.  

This attitude was in stark contrast with the vast majority of young men I had encountered in my time in Tropang Sdok village. Upon my departure in late 2008, I recall that English teachers and students that I came into contact with regularly spoke openly of their happiness for Cambodia to go to war against Thailand and prove its ground forces superiority, as well as reinforce rightful ownership of Preah Vihear Temple.  Whether they would volunteer to go to onto the frontline themselves is something I never discovered, because conversation would then suddenly shift towards safer topics or change to Khmer language, freezing me out of the conversational loop altogether. But it seems that I had encountered an individual not afraid to speak his mind.   

“So do you think Prime Minister Hun Sen is hiding other problems?”  

“Yes, of course,” Soporm shot back. “If you think Phnom Penh has many poor people living on the streets, you go to the countryside and see how many beggars ask for help.” He then pulled out a mobile phone and showed me a minute of video footage depicting an old woman talking in a raspy voice. ”Yesterday this lady came crying to me because she had not eaten in 3 days. Her husband died last year but she goes out to the fields every day to plant rice. She has no money to buy rice because her son takes the money that should be used for food and buys wine for himself.”  

“What did you do?” I asked. 

“I gave her some of my rice that I had collected back at the monastery,” continued Soporm. “No politician will feed her because they do not want to know of her existence. She is a survivor, but not a soldier. I do not understand why ex-Khmer Rouge members who are responsible for so many deaths in the past can suddenly become heroes if they say they are prepared to fight and die for Cambodia by defending Preah Vihear.” 

With a hopeful smile, I added, “This lady can vote for another party this election. Cambodia is a democracy, isn’t it?”  

Judging by Soporm’s reaction, I must have sounded ridiculous because he chuckled and stated, “No we are not. This is still a dictatorship. Many parties are just to show countries like yours that we can have elections too.” With a sigh signifying defeat, he concluded, ”Maybe we should have only one party. People here already know who will win.” 

Hearing stories like this is what cut deeply into my soul while living in Cambodia. Multiple numbers of four wheel drives with logos representing international aid agencies and electoral observers from the European Union frequently travelled on the national road connecting Phnom Penh and the town of Takeo. Countless numbers of open trucks representing numerous political movements used their megaphones to court residents with mottos and promises, and hand out leaflets. How many of them stopped to listen to experiences like Soporm was exposing me to? How many of these officials actually knew of such conditions that residents endured? And what was the extent of my responsibility now that I had spoken with somebody who in public remains impartial, yet was secretly telling me about his own political aspirations? 

Suddenly he turned and felt the sleeve of my shirt with his thumb and forefinger. My initial thought was that I should give him the shirt off my back.  

“David,” he began, “Please help me. I need money for clothes.”  

At that moment, my eyes darted around in earnest, desperately looking for signs of a passing moto driver and an excuse to leave the scene at this awkward moment. 

“Well,” I began, remembering that I had only 1,000 Cambodian riel and $USD20, “I don’t have much riel.” 

“U.S. dollars are okay for me,” responded Soporm.  

And here was my moral dilemma. Without the US dollars, I had no way of travelling to Phnom Penh. I glanced over to the coconut vendor across the road, but even though he probably had local currency, he would need to sell 40 coconuts to obtain 80,000 riel just for me to get some change. Giving the monk the solitary 1,000 riel note would seem like an insult considering how much he had shared with me. I may as well give him nothing and be prepared to accept any bad karma as just desserts, I thought.  

And that is exactly what I did.  

“I’m sorry, but I have only enough to get me to reach Phnom Penh.” It was obvious that I was lying severely to protect my own interests and I could tell that the monk could see right through my intentions. However, he chose to smile and say that it was alright.  

After excusing ourselves by saying that we had other destinations to reach, my sojourn with the young monk ended meekly. This is only appropriate considering the scant amount of attention I paid to a simple request. Indeed Soporm was right; I do not know what it is like to be poor, and like so many, I ignored the plight of one in need and demonstrated how much extra study I still needed to master the art of respect.

Appeasing The Monk and Cultivating The Cynic

Amongst the Bahnars in Kom Tum

Amongst the Bahnars in Kom Tum

March 1, 2009
by David Calleja

“The ethnic minority people, the Bahnar, Jolong, Rongao and Sirang, are kind and hard working, but we have very little to show,” says Kruh, my Bahnar guide for the day. He is dark skinned and tells me that he spent most of his life growing up on a farm. He lost part of his thumb and a toe working in the fields slicing crops at the age of 15.  

For the past two years, Kruh has been studying electronics in school the central Vietnamese city of Kom Tum, and his plan is to graduate in 2010. Although he speaks a high level of English and can converse fluently, we discuss not the rapid changing of Vietnamese society, but how the process of “Vietnamization” is having a detrimental effect on his Bahnar people. He alludes to the process of his culture gradually fading away.  

I inquire further as he takes me from village to village and instructs me to survey the contrasting styles of houses as we pass through the villages. 

“You see the housing in the villages? They are not traditional huts. Many of them are made of bricks nowadays. We are being encouraged by the authorities to modernize, yet the authorities still claim they care about our heritage. But they think only of the needs of tourists, not us.” 

Taking a look around the villages where the Bahnar people live, as well as other minorities who converse in a tribal language and not Vietnamese, only rongs or communal houses that have high ceilings retain a distinguishable traditional form.  

“We say the higher the roof, the stronger the village,” Kruh tells me. 

Inside the rongs are coal fireplaces and photos of important ceremonies. In one village I saw, a rong that had been gutted by fire. After rebuilding, some of the wood still bears the scars of the day it went up in flames. Keen to show concern for keeping alive the traditions of ethnic minorities as well as maintaining a presence in the community, Vietnamese authorities gave approval for villages to make their own choice about designs of new rongs. The communal building in Kruh’s own village was falling apart so a new one was constructed in 2006. Wood from the forest was used to construct churches, a time consuming process when men would stay away for days to chop down trees, sleeping in the forests, and then bring back trunks by buffalo and cart. These days, trucks carry back the necessary materials. However, this has led to large areas of deforestation. 

Other buildings that are booming in construction include Catholic churches. Thanks to French missionaries, wooden churches are being erected in villages everywhere. The most famous wooden church in Kon Tum is in Nguyen Hue,  and contains an orphanage at the back, which is simply called Vinh Son 1.  

Bahnar people take their religious worshipping seriously and attend 6:00 am Sunday mass without fail. The church is one place where children also learn their native Bahnar language because they are forbidden to learn their mother tongue in Vietnamese schools. Practice in Catholicism is strong, a legacy from the days when the French colonial authorities administered daily affairs for everybody in Vietnam. In Kom Tum, the church has effectively served as a springboard for keeping alive indigenous traditions. There are plenty of photos at the rong depicting ceremonies and showing the efforts made to keep these traditions flowing. Very few, if any, ethnic minority people here are Buddhists, and a few are animist. 

Kruh takes me on his motorcycle into the low lying mountain areas. We pass fields growing rice, corn and sugar cane. These are crops Kruh used to farm when he was younger. The Bahnar people have tended to these crops for many years, cultivating the soil and sending crops for consumption in the larger cities. Yet the fruits of labor seem to avoid the workers of the land and benefit the landlords and business owning neighbors who set up corner shops. Kruh instructs that we hop off the bike so he can show me an example.  

Within one or two years, the business owners are making relatively sizable profits that people Kruh living in a poor village can only dream about.  I asked him if the Bahnars want to get involved in selling goods in shops like these. “We lack the experience and capital required to make enterprises like this work for us,” explains Kruh, with a slight voice of discontent. “We see others making money and doing well for their families and I want that opportunity as well, but it is beyond many ethnic people. Sometimes I feel as if we are looked down upon because we only work the land. There is no money to be made in laboring in the fields, which is why I decided not to farm anymore.” 

We continued to walk through the village, passing a construction site which has pillars up. This will soon become the site of a new Catholic Church. Men and women worked feverishly to complete the job as soon as possible. I surveyed the housing styles, and very few of them are built like traditional huts. In the past 10 years, more homes have been built with bricks. They can be built in half of the time and with less money if laborers work seven days a week. A bamboo hut costs $2,000 to assemble whereas a brick home costs about $1,000. 

At the same time, convoys of Vietnamese youths on motorcycles ride past flashing the victory symbol and saying “Helloooooo” to me as they head towards the Daklar River, a popular drinking spot. These are young men and women who travel from cities as part of tour groups to find this quiet spot for lunch and photo opportunities. The dry season has shortened the width of the Daklar River by two-thirds and water levels have dropped. The river is dirty as years of forest degradation and unseasonal rainfall wash away the hillsides. Once the rainy season starts, it will be impossible to walk down here at all because the water levels will rise, and it will be visible only from the higher hills. Kruh recalls when, as a boy, the water was so clear he could drink from it. Nowadays, he says, you have to travel further up the mountain to get a more reliable source of clean water.  

Our afternoon was specifically reserved for visiting Vinh Son 2, another Catholic orphanage. This is the largest of the orphanages in town and houses 200 children between the ages of sex months to 19 years. The definition of an orphan, explains the manager of the orphanage, Sister Jane, does not just refer to children who have lost a mother and/or father. It is anyone who has been displaced from their home due to economic hardships. Where parents and households have found it so difficult to cope with the costs of living, they have made the difficult decision of placing their offspring in an orphanage to be looked after.  

The orphanage doubles as a permanent daycare for children who attend school during the semester and return home for holidays. They attend school in the morning and have the afternoon to themselves. Upon reaching 15, teenagers spend time working in the fields adjoining the school throughout the day and attend night school to complete their education. The price of feeding all the children for one day is 400,000 Vietnamese Dong ($USD25), and although the cost of rice is subsidized, the greatest concern is for those who cannot be fed, especially the infants. 

I ventured into the children’s quarters for 10 minutes. Against the wall were four children aged five or six years old sleeping in cots with steel cages designed for children half their age. Their growth was stunted. One girl lay there with open sores on her leg, flies buzzing around her. A solitary elderly woman adopted the dual role of nanny and nurse and tended to a newborn child, watching over five other children younger than three years of age. Since the heat prevented her from being more active around the premises, she entrusted four girls aged between eight and twelve to look after the children who were in a more serious condition.  

With the number of children in orphanages, one of the English teachers at Vinh Son 1 Orphanage explained, the authorities were clamping down on foreigners travelling to Vietnam wishing to adopt village-born children and Vietnamese couples unable to conceive. Children without parents would now be permitted to live with extended family members such as aunties and uncles in the absence of direct family members. Upon reaching the age of 19, when they would be expected to leave the orphanage, these young adults would receive a plot of land in their original village to farm.  

I thanked Sister Jane for her time at the orphanage, made a financial donation and left for the day.  

Before my day had finished, Kruh told me, “The ethnic minorities are good people, kind people that want the same success as the Vietnamese have. I spent time in the army during the war, I served my country and I am proud to be Vietnamese. But I also have my Bahnar roots and I commit myself to upholding my traditions as much as I commit myself to the country I live in.” The next time I visited, he promised, we would go to the more obscure mountains and see the plight of those in greater desperation. 

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous for you?” I asked. 

“No, because I want you to see how we live so that you can bring more people here so I can show them our story,” he responded. “I am not afraid to take risks. But the decision to stay silent and not aim to have the same rights and privileges as other groups living in Vietnam presents a risk that will be too late to redress if no action is taken now.”

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/03/01/amongst-the-bahnars-in-kom-tum/

Amongst the Bahnars in Kom Tum