Broken curfew invokes the spirit of Chao Anouvong

Last weekend I had my first brush with Lao authority. Due to Laos’ hosting of the First Meeting of States Party to the Convention of Cluster Munitions, which was just winding up, and the quickly following celebration of Vientiane’s 450th anniversary as national capital, I’d heard rumours that the local police and village troupes would actually be enforcing the government’s midnight curfew for foreigners. These whispers proved more reliable than Vientiane Times’ reporting.

Of course it didn’t make sense, but things often don’t in this part of the world. Take, for instance, the propensity for the authorities, when confronted with big national events, to do away with traffic lights and instead station traffic police to whistle and point, whistle and point, whistle and whistle and whistle. This generally results in confusion and ridiculous gridlocks, and whenever I’m reminded about the Lao government’s desire for ‘progress’ and ‘development’ (more than a few times every day), I’m equally drawn to this anachronistic form of social control.

Back on point: the day had started typically, a Friday in the office without any particular stress. Though, with the eyes of the world on Vientiane, the Times resembled less a newspaper than a hacked-together brochure detailing Laos’ struggles with cluster bombs since the Indochina War. Cut-and-paste facts and figures lined every article: the number killed each year, the area of contaminated land, and the number of undetonated bombs dropped by US forces. The objective? Funding. It’s an injustice, no doubt, that Laos, ‘the most heavily bombed country in the world’, hasn’t received more support, particularly from their chief terrorisers, the US – but the way to redress the situation need not be an exercise in how to make friends and take them for all their worth.

As if to support these tactics, as the cluster munitions conference rolled on, a 10 year old girl from Borikhamxay province was killed by UXO. On the final day of the conference, like one massive punch to the guts, the paper published several gruesome pictures of the deceased lying naked on an operating table, one on the cover.

Even with that backdrop, it was just a regular day at the office. Come knock-off time, having just devoured with glee my first remotely anti-Party line article of the day (week, month…), I was preparing myself for a quiet Friday night (note: you cannot escape the hammer and saw, and subsequent lost sleep, of construction in Laos). Then I got a call from the lay-out room, where an impromptu birthday party was going on for one of the women. I was seated and promptly told by one to “stop talking, don’t think – just drink” (was it something I said?). Needless to say, it wasn’t a hard demand to follow. Next I was told it was time to split the scene and make for an urban beer-hall. I obliged.

What came next was a bit of a whirlwind involving beer, several changes of location, motorbike rides through dimly lit streets, ogling girls, and trying to comment on everything in poorly spoken Lao. We wound up in Phontong village, at my workmate’s home, a modest two-room apartment in a local estate, elevated in grandeur by the warmth and joyousness of those seated on the floor. We’d stopped off for a crate of Beerlao, which I skilfully balanced like a local on the back of a bike. Evidently the night was still young.

But the regime don’t like it. Come 1am, a knock on the door. Six larger-than-average Lao men, uniformed, some clutching AK47s, entered the front room with a look of distaste (a frankly punchable look, if I may add). The village militia. With barely a glance in my direction, they bustled us, and our remaining beer, into the back of a ute. To clarify things, mine could not have been a more innocent engagement. By then it was three young local journalists, a neighbour, and a sub-editor – me, with blond, curly hair, tall physique, obviously a disruptive figure – sitting on the ground quietly drinking into the early hours. A nice, private gathering.

As the cool, night air licked our troubled heads, we quickly discussed our tactics. My friend, a distinguished journalist, had just been granted a foreign trip as reward for some recent work. We were celebrating – that was our cover. Not that I need have listened in. At the village headquarters, we were greeted by a scene not too dissimilar to ours just broken up. Men sat around a table drinking beer while we were directed into a room , more like a thoroughfare. As I sat, words unlike words whizzed back and forth. Uncomprehending, I sat, stared and stared. An hour passed. A stalemate. I did retreat to the bathroom at one stage, superfluous to proceedings, but my friends assured me no money was exchanged. Journalist cards were bandied about. I just don’t understand what there was to talk about for so long. Then we left for home, crate of beer intact.

In the end, my friend, ever the joker, said he’d invoked the spirit of Chao Anouvong, a former king of Laos during the Lane Xang era, by telling the village head he was his son. A new bronze statue by the Mekong River attests to Chao Anouvong’s legacy. For this night, what lived on: sheer confusion and a morning-after headache.

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