Beer Lao

(Written in February)

I’m sitting at restaurant along the Mekong River in Vientiane, Laos.  Mariah Carey is singing something about being strong for those who’ve lost, as the sun makes its way across the river.   The river looks dry for this time of year, more like a stream than the life-pulse of Southeast Asia.  To see it now, one could reasonably wonder how the region will survive. 

As I ponder the fate of the Mekong over a Beer Lao, I’m taken back to two years ago and another Mekong conversation.  Then, Vientiane wasn’t so bustling; it was easy to see the river from the main road.  I remember remarking to Craig how picturesque the view of the Mekong was as farmers waded for fish and clams just beyond the reeds.  Now, bamboo restaurants, reminiscent of Krabi and Phuket, line the water’s edge, selfishly blocking the river’s beauty from passersby. 

For me, Vientiane holds special meaning.  Laos was the last country on our three-country tour through Southeast Asia, during which we spent time visiting parts of Vietnam and Cambodia.  We crammed all three countries in 1 1/2 weeks of travel and were justifiably travel-worn when we arrived in Vientiane.  Craig and I spent our first night there waxing on philosophically over Pad Thai and Beer Lao – a Lawler favorite.  Debating over local food had become a standby for us.  And we were both brimming with information.  Craig was working on his latest article on the economic loss rule, while I had just completed my Masters in Development, with a specialty in water governance.  We were both waiting for the right opportunity to offload Al Gore style, complete with lame jokes and boring transitions.  I used Craig’s relative ignorance of the Mekong’s importance to my advantage, and spent the better part of our first night in Vientiane preaching to him about the possibility of a hydropolitical security complex forming amongst the Mekong riparian states, and the critical importance of regional water governance, to protect livelihoods and assets of the poorest of the poor.  Yes.  He obliged and allowed me my five minutes of airtime out of courtesy.  On occasion, he’d chime in with his own take on the topic. Poor guy.

That night, Craig and I stopped by a local bar, Kop Chi Dur, where we listened to “Neil Diamond” and his side-kick “Patsy Cline” belt out Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, and the like.  By coincidence, the duo’s first song was a Bob Dylan tune Craig had taught me just a few days before called “Don’t think twice”.  Craig and I just smiled at each other. 

The next day, I had to make an Embassy run to renew my visa.  Craig and I booked a flight to Luang Prabang for early afternoon, but, in typical fashion, by noon, I was still waiting for my visa.  After some discussion, we agreed that Craig should go ahead with the flight, with the idea that, if I didn’t make it to the airport, I’d rebook my ticket and join him later that day.  A half hour before our flight was to depart, I finally received my visa, but had to haggle with no less than three Laotian tuk-tuk drivers before landing one that would take me to the airport for a reasonable price.  I arrived just in time to join Craig in the waiting hall.  I can remember that moment so vividly.  Craig was writing in his notebook as I slowly slung my backpack down beside him, in an exaggerated “for the love of God” expression.  He seemed surprised to see me, and happy that I was there. 

We arrived in Luang Prabang in time for a nice bike ride; Craig took video of us as we snaked through the hilly town.  We ended the night with food and a chat at a restaurant nestled deep in the city’s bar district.  Ever the risk taker, Craig drank a glass of Laotian apertishi, or moonshine.  I can remember his eyes watering as the alcohol went down.  Full and a little tipsy, we took a stroll along the night market, and bought a few silk items for his friends back in Denver.  While walking back to our hostel, we stopped by a wake for a woman who had recently been cremated.  The family had hired a local music troop to play traditional music as people passed by to pay their respects.  As a matter of custom, funeral services are open events, and everyone is welcome to attend.  Craig and I joined the family, and ate and drank Beer Lao with other Laotians as the music troop played traditional wooden instruments. 

Craig remarked on this night during one of his story-telling sessions last September.  Craig believed in living life with a heightened awareness of self, as well as awareness on how one fits within a larger framework of interaction.  Music. Camaraderie.  Openness to strangers.  This was, to Craig, a representation of philosophy in action -- of life in its most perfect, yet simplest form.  He seemed transformed by this experience, and spoke of “that one night in Luang Prabang” as if trying to relive the moment – if only briefly. 

That night in Luang Prabang was also meaningful for Craig in that it provided the catalyst for him to act on his instincts and decline an offer with a major law firm, something he had been debating throughout our time in Bangkok, Vietnam, Cambodia, and then Laos.  He even considered quitting law altogether to embrace the life of a development worker.  We had many a conversation over grasshoppers and snails about what it would mean for Craig to take a risk and change his life course completely. 

The prospect of entering the private sector on the heels of what he considered was his life’s calling – working as a clerk with the Bankruptcy court – was physically and emotionally upsetting for him.  He didn’t want to get sucked back into corporate haggling, billable hours, and lopsided work-life balance.  He hated litigation and all the games and tricks that went with it.  However, he had already accepted the offer; it was a matter of continuing with a bad decision out of principle, or risking his reputation and going back on his word in order to do what was right for Craig.   “That one night in Luang Prabang” helped Craig put his life in perspective.  The next morning, he sent the firm a note informing them of his decision.  Little did Craig know that this one decision adorned us with a small lesson for life of gnomic brevity:  never settle in happiness; we deserve much more. 

After spending a few days hiking the hills in Luang Prabang, Craig and I traveled back to Vientiane in time for a little shopping before catching our connecting flight to Bangkok. Craig often bought trinkets or souvenirs as little reminders of his time abroad.  It was in Vientiane where Craig bought a red Beer Lao t-shirt a shirt he’d wear often throughout his travels, and especially in Denver.  The Beer Lao shirt was a particular steal, since the store only had one left in his size.  I remember the purchase vividly, and how his eyes looked as he asked earnestly if I thought the shirt was too tight.  I told him it was flattering. 

He loved Laos; he loved traveling; he loved the t-shirt.  It seemed fitting that, in the end, his young life ended while wearing the very shirt we bought together, during one of the best periods in his life.