Than Thoot Karen! signing off after 3 great years :-(

Than Thoot Karen the blog of the US Ambassador Karen Stewart is soon to end as Karen makes her exit. Embassy personnel are typically rotated out to a different posting every 3 years.

To say I'll miss Ms Stewart's posting is an understatement. More than any other US official ever posted to Laos Ms. Stewart showed followers of her blog a much more personal and genuine view of an American official. Not afraid to be herself, Ms Stewart whether doing the ball toss game at Hmong New Year or singing rap at a large Vientiane concert showed one of the sides of the American character I'm perhaps most proud of, the ability to be friendly and uninhibited no matter what our position or calling in life.

Good Luck Ambassador Stewart and thank you so much for your service to your country.

Burma or Myanmar - Bertil Lintner chimes in

If you don't know who Bertil Lintner is, you should.

An East Asia hand from sometime back before the invention of the wheel Bertil's forte is repressive secretive regimes. Ya I know, that would include a lot of countries, Bertil concentrates on Burma, the country he has written about and traveled extensively in since four decades ago. His name stuck in my mind during one of those reflexive reactions that the Lao PDR sometimes goes through and Bertil seemingly knew the why and the wherefore when everyone else was uninformed. Where he gets his info one can only guess.

But this post is about the Burma/Myanmar argument about which I knew nothing except that those who disliked the repressive regime there and were in favor of boycotting the place used Burma, those who looked more kindly on the regime called it Myanmar. Officially it is and was Myanmar because that's what they call themselves. The same as we call Laos the Lao PDR.

The following is the expanded version of a letter Bertil sent to the Financial Times and goes into depth and detail regarding the linguistic origins of both words and how language is used politically within, ehem, Burma.

This is just a blatant cut and paste from a great web site called Mizzima which is one of the best independent news sources for goings in within Burma.

You claim that you (the "you" he is talking to here is the Financial Times) have adopted the name “Myanmar” for Burma “on the grounds of neutrality” and because it “smacks less of domination by a majority ethnic group.” (January 5, 2012). This is linguistically and historically incorrect. It is correct that today’s Burmese rulers claim that Burma, or bama, is a colonial name while Myanmar is more indigenous and encompasses all the many nationalities of the country. But it was not the British who “named Myanmar Burma.” The once British colony has always been called Burma in English and bama or myanma in Burmese. The best explanation of the difference between the two names is found in the old Hobson-Jobson Dictionaryof “Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases,” which despite its rather unorthodox name remains a very useful source of information: 
“The name (Burma) is taken from Mran-ma, the national name of the Burmese people, which they themselves generally pronounce Bam-ma, unless speaking formally and empathically.” (Col. Henry Yule and A.C. Burnell, New Edition Edited by William Crooke, Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases, and of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical Discursive. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers, 1979, originally published in 1903, p. 131.) Both names have been used interchangeably throughout history, with Burma being the more colloquial name and Myanmar a more formal designation.
If Burma meant only the central plains and Myanmar the Burmans and all the other nationalities, how could there be, according the Myanmar Language Commission, a “Myanmar language”? Its official Myanmar-English Dictionary also mentions a “Myanmar alphabet.” Clearly, Burma and Myanmar, and Burmese and Myanmar, mean exactly the same thing, and it cannot be argued that the term “Myanmar” includes any more people within the present union than the name “Burma” does.
But the confusion is an old one and when the Burmese independence movement was established in the 1930s, there was a debate among the young nationalists as to what name should be used for the country:bama or myanma. The nationalists decided to call their movement the Dohbama Asiayone instead of the Dohmyanma Asiayone. The reason, they said, was that:
“Since the dohbama was set up, the nationalists always paid attention to the unity of all the nationalities of the country...and the thakins (Burmese nationalists) noted that myanma meant only the part of the country where the myanma people lived. This was the name given by the Burmese kings to their country. Bama naing-ngan is not the country where only the myanma people live. Many different nationalities live in this country, such as the Kachins, Karens, Kayahs, Chins, P-Os, Palaungs, Mons, Myanmars, Rakhines and Shans. Therefore, the nationalists did not use the term myanma naing-ngan but bama naing-ngan. That would be the correct term...all nationalities who live in bama naing-nganare called bama.” (A Brief History of the Dohbama Asiayone (in Burmese). Rangoon: Sarpay Beikman, 1976, p. 215)
Thus, the movement became the Dohbama Asiayone and not the Dohmyanma Asiayone .The Burmese edition of The Guardian monthly, another official publication, also concluded in February 1971: “The word myanma signifies only the myanmars whereas bama embraces all indigenous nationalities.”
In May 1989, however, the present government decided that the opposite was true and changed the name in English to Myanmar — although it had been myanma naing-ngan, “the State of Burma,” in formal Burmese since independence in 1948. The bitter truth is that there is no term in Burmese or in any other language that covers both the bama/myanma and the ethnic minorities since no such entity existed before the arrival of the British. Burma with its present boundaries is a colonial creation, and successive governments of independent Burma have inherited a chaotic entity which is still struggling to find a common identity. But “changing” the name of the country to what it has always been called in formal Burmese is unlikely to make any difference. Burma has been in a state of revolt since independence in 1948, with no lasting solution to its ethnic and political problems in sight.
Rangoon or Yangon is another reflection of the same kind of misunderstanding. Rangoon begins with the consonant “ra gaut”, or “r”, not “ya palait” or “y”. In English texts, Rangoon is therefore an etymologically more correct spelling. The problem is that the old r-sound has died out in most modern Burmese dialects and softened to a “y” — but not in Arakanese and Tavoyan, which both have a very distinct r-sound. Further, there is another dimension to the recent “name changes” in Burma. It was not only the names of the country and the capital which were “changed”; in the minority areas new names were also introduced as well, and here it was a real change. A few examples from Shan State: Hsipaw became Thibaw, Hsenwi became Theinli or Thinli, Kengtung became Kyaingtong, Mong Hsu became Maing Shu, Lai-Hka became Laycha, Pangtara became Pindaya and so on. 
The problem here is that the original names all have a meaning in the Shan language; the “new” names are just Burmanised versions of the same names, with no meaning in any language. This undermines the argument that the changes were done in order to make them “more indigenous” and not only reflecting the majority Burmans. This has prompted Gustaaf Houtman, a Dutch Burma scholar, to coin the term “Myanmafication” to refer to the top-down programme of replacing “unity in diversity” — which had been Aung San’s vision of an independent Burma  — with a more ethnically streamlined nation state. (Mental Culture in Burmese Crisis Politics: Aung San Suu Kyi and the National League for Democracy. Tokyo: Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, 1999, pp. 15ff.) Others would claim it is just a concerted drive to Burmanise the whole country and wipe out the separate identities of the ethnic minorities.
Bertil LintnerChiang Mai, Thailand

The Rocket, a movie trailer

I'm not sure where this is made but I caught the fact that it dealt with forced relocation for hydro, which is kinda controversial I'd think.

Also infanticide of twins per Akha culture. Never heard an Akha granny speak such perfect Lao before.

I'd be interested to see the movie. I know of a couple villages getting relocated and I don't talk about it.

Mekong Tourist Pak Beng

Old style freighter about to enter the rapids bellow Xiengkok.  All photos Jan 9 and 10, 2009

Up where the Golden Triangle still exists, there still is a place without much government or anything resembling one. Xiengkok Laos is at the end of the road, and the road ends at the Mekong, and that’s why I was there. For the time being the river itself is the fastest, if not the best way out. Out to mobile phone coverage, the internet, and money changers. Out to the electric grid and roads with cars and trucks. The upper Mekong hasn’t been gentrified,,,, yet.

Fast boats Xiengkok looking upstream. Burma left, Laos right.

Xiengkok lies halfway up the three or four hundred kilometer stretch of river where Laos shares a border with Burma. I know other foreigners pass through, but I’ve never seen one. Mostly it’s a bunch of steep hills with trees and a river cutting through them. The river is relatively narrow and it carries a heck of a lot of water. The water is in a big hurry to get downstream someplace where it can widen out, take it’s time, and get sabai.

I’ve no idea who controls the part of Burma across the river. I’ve never even seen people over there. I know it’s Shan State, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shan_State but not run by the Shan State Army and most assuredly not the Myanmar Government. Warlords.

Despite it’s reputation for being the lawless center of South East Asian opium cultivation, (and methamphetamines now) the whole place exudes a feeling of listlessness. As if nothing happens and nothing ever will. The river transportation is by way of fast boat, and I don’t remember much of the ride.

Chinese freight boat emerging from narrows.

It was early, sometimes with thick fog just meters above the river. We stood by for a few minutes somewhere waiting for a Chinese freighter to make it’s way up the narrows. The Chinese blasted a route through the rapids a decade or more ago, it’s kind of a tight squeeze for two boats to pass each other by.

When golden tats start appearing through the trees on the right you know you are getting close to the Thai border. There is a big casino on the Burma side operated by a large Chinese syndicate. Thais and others cross to do the gambling that is illegal in Thailand.

The Lao side of the river is Ban Mom, with a large boat landing. The tour groups out of Thailand taking the opium tour (without the opium) get a boat ride across the river to Ban Mom and for ten bucks they can get a real Lao stamp on their passport good only for Ban Mom. Lots of places sell T shirts, and pickled snakes in bottles of whiskey, that kind of thing.

There was a woman at the locals restaurant waiting for me or someone just like me or even better would have been five someones just like me. She was a sawngtheau driver waiting for fares. But there was only me. After hectoring me to finish my bowl of pho, and after I paid way too much money in advance, we drove around town for half an hour looking for more riders. We found none.

The road over the piece of land formed by the big turn of the river was a lot longer than I’d thought. Maybe her price wasn’t so outlandish.

I know I slept in Huay Xai, the town that is the traditional entry point for backpackers on the South East Asian circuit. They enter from Northern Thailand, take a slow boat that is reserved just for western backpackers for two days down the river to Luang Prabang, then down to Vang Vieng for partying, Vientiane, Sii Pon Don, then out to Cambodia and they’ve “done” Laos. Huay Xai is smack dab in the center of what is called the banana pancake trail. A well trodden route for western independent tourists.

Cat skin, I think clouded leopard, Huay Xai

I might have crossed briefly into Thailand to renew my visa or use the ATM, I don’t remember. I’ve passed through Houay Xai a few times. Whatever the case by late the next morning I was down at the fast boat landing on the far side of town checking out the possibility of a ride further on down the river. It took awhile but finally we took off, a couple other passengers, and the fast boat guy.

Down at the first big bend of the river Thailand skedaddles off to the east and the Mekong continues on between Laos on both banks. It actually flows like that all the way down almost to Vientiane when it once again becomes the international border.

As people flagged us down from the bank the boat got more and more full. If you count babies we had nine people on board. The gunwales were barely above the water, but when we got up to speed we were skipping on down the river as normal. The other passengers were all Hmong, which was weird. Hmong live up on the mountain ridges where the air is cooler and there is less malaria. Maybe they were relocated Hmong.

Quiet of mid day Pak Beng

My destination was the town of Pak Beng. (“mouth of Beng”, as in where one river dumps into another) Pak Beng has held a nefarious reputation on the Banana Pancake Circuit. Many tales of not enough rooms in the hotels and sleeping in makeshift bamboo places with tons of rats. Being sold drugs only to turn around and have money extorted by police. Any horror story you might care to imagine. What I was especially waiting to see was the mobbing of the slow boat by the town as children try to grab backpacks for the porter fees, and steer folks towards hotels for commissions.

The main drag getting ready for slow boat Pak Beng

The arrival of the slow boat to Pak Beng had taken on a larger than life reputation, part of the backpacker mythology. Something one just had to see, like the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

The town was asleep it was noon. In the time between the slow boat leaving in the morning and the other slow boat coming in the evening, Pak Beng reverts to being a regular Lao town. Kind of like a beach town in the winter, half deserted and waiting for the main show. I checked in to the very first hotel I came upon. No electricity in town until the generator kicks in when the boat comes. I killed time.

The people of Pak Beng gathering for kao poon before the arrival of the slow boat

Slow boat approaching Pak Beng

Later in the afternoon I and seemingly at least one person from most of the hotels and restaurants went down to meet the boat just above the landing. An Indian fellow struck up a conversation, the owner of the local restaurant, every town has to have one Indian restaurant. He spoke in measured tones no trace of the typical choppy fast lilting Indian accent. Laos is a very small country, it’s easy to gossip about towns and people and businesses. English speakers who have stayed very long invariably have something to talk about.

A young Lao guy also speaking English joined us but bantering the Indian using made up simplified English. “You Bengladeshi, yes sir, you Bengladeshi kohn kahk” Bengladeshis being the predominant South Asian illegal immigrants of the the country due to proximity just across... Burma. Khon Kahk a slightly racist jibe at South Asians in Lao Language. The Indian cursed him soundly but in a bored tone. A nightly ritual no doubt.

The rest of the crowd talked quietly. They waited patiently with flyers advertising room rates and restaurant menus. They had none of the look of sharks smelling blood. When the boats finally arrived there was no pushing or crowding or hard selling at all. The backpackers looked tired from sitting on the boat all day and maybe sipping a couple of  those large Beer Laos.

Backpackers arrive Pak Beng

Imperceptibly my attitude had changed towards my fellow tourists. Rather than wishing to see them mobbed by touts I hoped they would soon set their largish backpacks down at one of the many new clean guesthouses and order off the English language menus of the now opened restaurants waiting to serve them “chicken curry” with a side order of fries. The people getting off the boat seemed less like gap year stoners and more like middle aged professionals taking two months off to see SEAsia. The main street of Pak Beng with the coming of dusk had transformed itself into a set for a Jimmy Buffett song complete with candle lit tables and soft reggae playing in the background. Looks like I missed Pak Beng at it’s peak by about ten or twelve years.

Today is over four years later still. Pak Beng is now undergoing major road work and a bridge somewhere a couple kilometers upstream. An all weather hard surface road will provide access to Chang Mai and Lampang from Udomxai and Mengla. (Thailand to China) It’s looking like there will be three bridges on the upper Mekong in Laos.

Things Change.

Foreign Expat Blogs in Laos

Above is a screen shot from a brand new blog about Laos called "Stuff Falang Like wich not so subtly pokes fun at the foreign scene in primarily Vientiane from the sounds of it.

The blog does an outstanding job of skewering the typical expat experience in Laos, but maybe the most fun parts are where it makes me cringe in places where I too might be a little guilty. The casual dropping of Lao expressions for instance. The blog rips the Joma frequenting, English only speaking, expat experience.

So far there are only six posts, but the blog was only begun in this month. Obviously living in Laos allows one plenty of time for blogging. It's hard to see how this theme could last for say... a hundred posts, but I'm a follower as long as it lasts.

Another blog about Laos which is kind of the antithesis is the aptly named Falang Prabang

Which gives helpful info about yoga classes, swimming pools, specialty food stores for foreigners and yes, even about Joma. Great film about monks sweeping, monks praying, monks monking, etc,  "the light, the people, the je ne sais quoi" yeah! I have to give the writer credit for the blog title. Forever more that will be how I know the place.

Despite having spent months at a time and visiting over years I can't think of a foreigner who lives in Laos that I could point to on the street. Not of one world or the other I've always felt uneasy with the falang world of coolness and one upsmanship, yet I won't even attempt to be the Lao person I am not. I wonder what the foreign population of Falang Prabang and Vientiane is these days?

Doing Nothing in Muang Long

One of the parts of being a tourist that I like best is having nothing to do. I also like being places where there isn't much to do, Long is just such a town.

My morning began with domestic chores, I'd just returned from a long walk and many things needed doing. I washed my clothes in the bucket from the bathroom at the same time as I listened to the BBC on my cheap Chinese short wave and brewed up endless cups of instant coffee with the electric cup heater. The addition of electricity to Muang Long has been a godsend.

I also washed myself, pieces at a time. I do it by quarters so that I'm only 1/4 freezing to death. No hot water shower in town.

That's the whole thing, Muang Long. The "Muang" part means that it's the center of the district. Biggest place in hundreds of square miles.

I was there a couple of years ago. There was no internet, no ATM, no foreigners that I saw. The market is a happening place from daylight until maybe 8am, after that things get quiet.

I wandered down to the old part of town, slowly, I wasn't walking so great.

The houses down by the river are all old and close together, wooden, carved. I walked into the courtyard of the wat. Ordinarily I'm not much of a religion tourist. The monks have their thing to do, I don't gawk. It used to be that Lao guys my age would have spent at least a couple of months as a monk, so I've talked to quite a few monks and former monks. Now everyone is in a big doggone hurry, kids in Bankok fit their obligation in, between vacation and school, if at all.

That all seemed far away from this place where no sound of internal combustion engine or aircraft overhead disturbs the lazy buz of insects and the low murmur of young novices whiling away the hours discussing who knows what. I returned their smiled greeting with the same, and one of them motioned me over as I'd been actually walking around to get to the other side of the wat. I was looking to get a photo without the monks, nothing more cliche than a monk photo, the cliche is not only the photo but the western tourist taking it.

The monk was actually motioning me into the wat through a side door so I went. Still smiling and unspeaking. Best to not speak Lao, leave them to go about their business, and I notice the sun from the door closes behind me. Alone. I don't do the three bows and the incense bit, I was born with round eyes.

I know enough about it to understand that the Lu temple is shaped differently than say the temples of Thai Nua, or Vientiane or Krung Thep Theravada Buddhists. I'm most impressed with the massive tree trunk central posts that lead to the high roof, and the roof itself is  made of tin. I forever appreciate a wat with a tin roof.

Notice the two small tiers to the upper roofes and how there are 4 sides to the roof lower down, this is unmistakably Lu.

I take some photos having no idea what I'm taking photos of but thinking to myself that my fellow blogger over at http://laomeow.blogspot.com/ more than likely would. 

Theravada is the branch of Buddhism closely associated with an old type from Sri Lanka and so it has lots of ritual. Like any religion it absorbs much of the religion it has replaced. I suspect the white rope looped around the posts in the photo above has very specific religious significance, maybe related to the pii or wandering ghosts of local beliefs.

Below More photos without comment as I've no idea what I'm looking at, if anyone else does please say so in the comment and I'll cut and paste up to the appropriate photo. Please mention which photo your comment applies to.

Cross

 Candle Holder?

Dish

Fly swatter fan

Hole in floor

House out back

Lions

Mirror

Newspaper rack not

Shining tat

Drum shed

Close up drum

cat playing with ashes

String tree

Even though I understand little I am glad to have wandered by the wat. The wat holds the highest forms of art and architecture. Inside it's pali scripts is the moral guidance of the culture codified.

The day has warmed while I'd been down in the old part of town. Some boys who had been spear fishing down at the Nam Long passed me by. I was walking very slowly. They were excited to be returning to their families with a morning's catch in the baskets they both wore around their backs. What an advantage a simple thing like a plastic face mask from China. Fresh fish is a good thing.

By mid day Muang Long is downright quiet. A motorcycle causes people to look up to see who it is, a car or truck is an event. Mostly the sun shines brightly and people are off doing whatever it is they are doing that day. I returned to my laundry, turning it so to dry on all sides and packing what was already dry. Somewhere up the street someone played Morlum and mid day drifted into afternoon to the hypnotic notes of the khaen.

Down at the market I ate a leisurely bowl of khao soi and watched nothing happen.

I noticed the two guys walking across the empty dirt parking lot that sits slightly above the market, they were the only things moving. The market though open was half asleep. As they came closer I recognised one of the guys as being my local guide from  the walk to Ban Huway Poong from Ban Nam Hee.


I suggested they both to join me in a bowl of khao soi and I asked them what they were up to while we ate. 

They'd left Bahn Nam Hee that morning. Assuming they left at about 8, that was well over 40km in seven hours. They had with them what they were wearing, a thin jacket on one and a light weight shirt on the other. They would have drunk from springs and carried no water, at night curled around either sides of a fire dozing until the fire needed more wood. Cold. Likely they'd also carried a long knife and stashed it in the woods before town. I didn't ask them their purpose in town or other particulars. Maybe they were there for supplies or maybe just to see the sights. Young guys like to walk around.

Another day of doing nothing.