Looking down from the tall and brand new building in front of the Morning Market, I saw a cluster of shoes repair stalls lining up the road leading to the post office. Most of the time, this road was busy with people going to and from the market. It was not unusual to see baskets flying around as they were thrown off the truck or the SamLo. With that, you could hear the cursing of the MaeKha piercing the air.

Seventeen years have passed since I last frequented this place. Still, hardly anything changed. The road was still covered with dust. Whenever the car or truck passed by, the flying dust was everywhere - on your clothes, on your face, on your hair. I would say that dust was the supreme king in Vientiane. You could witness its omnipresence on the buildings, the leaves that Vientiane people didn't even bother to paint their buildings and to cover their mouths any more.

At one shoe repair stall, a little bit off from others - a strange thing in itself, a man of an old age with a dark skin - atypical of the shoe repairmen occupied that space. Curious as I was, I rushed down the stairs without even using the convenient elevator - a new and fashionable thing to do in Laos. On the sidewalk, I encountered another fad among the Lao youth: that was the MeuTheu or cellular phone ringing everywhere - from the passing motorcycle, the rich kids eating at the restaurant by the grand LanXang Avenue.

As soon as I got to the stall, I realized that I had no shoes to be repaired. It would be an awkward thing indeed to just stare at the old man for the mere sake of curiosity. Worse, there was no one at his stall. Like a sitting duck, I was in his plain sight.

"Come in. Looks like you are not around here." The old man broke the silence while making a gesture for me to get close. He must have noticed my presence for a while despite the fact that he was busy dusting off the shores lining up his stand.

"You are right. I am from the U.S." Usually, I wouldn't disclose where I cam from to the stranger. My reason was that I didn't want people to see me other than ordinary Lao like themselves. Maybe, because the old man looked so kind, or maybe because my act of carrying a camera and a camcorder sold me out; I wasn't sure. Anyway, I was glad I did that.

The old man told me that he was the only Lao in this business of shoe repair around here. As you know, this business was monopolized by the Vietnamese. At first, he said, he didn't have any intention of doing this kind of things. After all, he hardly knew about the trade aside the shoes. In fact, he didn't even own a pair at that time. To him, shoes especially black leather shoes were kind of a novelty. Being born in the countryside and growing up as a farmer, he didn't need any shoes. Bare feet could take him anywhere. The most, at times, his feet needed to wear something were when he had to go to the government buildings in town. That was when he resorted to the slippers made out of bamboo. These slippers were out of his own making. They were not of a good quality but they were usable, and that was the most important thing to him. By the way, I forgot to tell you that his name is Bounma, a typical Lao name - not fanciful and easy to remember. Loung Bounma worked hard all of his life, and even at this old age, he wouldn't rest. He said he didn't want to depend on his kids for the financial support. He knew that they had to make ends meet like everybody else. Out of concern, they insisted that he retired. Still, he wouldn't budge. He told me that once he had made up his mind, no one could change it. That was how he got into the shoe repairing business and stood by it until this very day.

Looking around his stall, I noticed that it wasn't crowded as the other stalls. A couple of shoes lining up on the stand were old. If they were in the U.S., nobody would bother about them. He let me know that those shoes were of his relatives or friends of relatives. Yes, it was terribly hard to get new customers. People tended to have more trust in the Vietnamese than of him, their own people. Some days, or even a week long, he didn't have a single customer. If so, why did he stick on for so long? It was here that I found what I hardly thought of finding it in such an unusual place.

Typical of the ordinary Lao, Loung Bounma had a deep respect for the ChaoNai especially when they showed that they cared about the people they led. So, when Chao Phetsarath proclaimed that he would make Laos a country where Lao people controlled their own destiny, this call for action resonated in Loung Bounma. To say the least, he was tired of seeing the arrogant French and the nosy Vietnamese running things around whenever he had to go to the town. Only if he were educated, he would be in the civil service. At one time, he thought of going back to school and got the required degree but he realized that he was too old to do that. Being at the late teens, he was still confident that he could accomplish any task aside from sitting in the classroom with a six-seven years old kid. Maybe, out of luck or not, one of the Vietnamese acquaintances in town would sell his shoes repair equipment to him at a cheap price. It was known that the guy was in a hurry to flee across the Mekong River when the French troops regained the control of Laos. Loung Bounma said it had to be fate for a farmer knowing nothing about the shoe repair business dared to take up this challenge. He reasoned to himself that if Chao Phetsarath wasn't wavering in the fight against the supremacy of the mighty French, he could do so. That didn't mean he dared to compare himself to Chao Phetsarath but it did mean that he was up to Chao Phetsarth's call for action. Only if he were in the know of Chao Phetsarath's resistance force against the French, he would have joined him too. Now, out of respect of the statesman and a sheer determination on his part, Loung Bounma took up the shoes repair business from then on.

 

"I had to learn the trade from point zero. At first, I had to be an apprentice with the experienced shoe mender with little or even no pay. Sheltering myself at the temple and satisfying with little food left from the alms bowl, I managed to survive. This is going on for quite some time. Then, one day, I realized that I have learned everything that needs to be learned so I opened my own stall." Loung Bounma retold his life story like a man proud of his place in history. Looking at his humble stall, I found it hard to substantiate his exuberance. "I like to repair our own countrymen's shoes. I always think that if they have good shoes to walk on, they will have lesser things to worry about. With that, they will have more time and energy to realize Chao Phetsarath's dream." With his enthusiastic words, I let my eyes fix at the picture of the man he constantly mentioned. This picture of Chao Phetsarath, grandly displayed in the middle of the stall, was the same one that I saw in most of the Lao homes. Usually, the picture was used to scare away the evil spirit as Chao Phetsarath was reputed to have magic powers. Noticing my eyes, Loung Bounma went on with Chao Phetsarath's story which, for an unknown reason, covered the whole story of the new Laos.

"He is my hero - the reason I stay behind." Loung Bounma, for the first time, began to reveal his political stance.

"I was there welcoming him back from his long exile in Thailand. Though aged, frail and no political clout left, he represents the best of what our people has to offer. When he passes away a year later, I see his dream passing on to his two half-brothers: Chao Souvanna Phouma and Chao Souphanouvong. Many of us would say that two Chao are neutralist or leftist but, to me, they represent the long line of true patriots. Being a shoe mender in the capital, I witness every event that is taking place there - from the jailing of Chao Souphanouvong in 1958 to the Kongle's coup d'etat in 1960, from the heavy bombing of the U.S. in the Pathet Lao zone in 1964 to the signing of the Vientiane peace treaty of 1973." Hardly believing my ears, I looked at Loung Bounma with a disbelief in my eyes. Here is a man embodying our country history with wisdom and courage. While the high ranking officials, the generals, the businessmen and the educated class left the country, he stays behind hoping and wishing to contribute to the country he dearly loves. What about me? I am educated. What have I done for my country? Visiting her once in a while, is that all I can do?

"I am glad that many of the overseas Lao are coming back even just for a brief visit. Hopefully, some of them will stay. When that day finally comes, Chao Phetsarath's soul will rest in peace." Loung Bounma's eyes wandered into the vast space. Maybe, he could feel something in the air. After all, those who live in a certain area for so long, they are in tune with that place's spirits.

 

Checking my watch, I noticed that it was time for another meeting. Before I took off, I bought some old pairs of shoes from him - the ones the owner didn't bother to get them back. This was the most I could do for a man whose life represented the best of Quon Lao no less than Chao Phetsarath himself. Even to this very day, those shoes - Loung Bounma's craftsmanship, display grandly in my bookcase. They are the living book that constantly reminds to fight on until the very last day of my life - the way Chao Phetsarth did and the way Loung Bounma has been doing.

Hakphaang,

This Khene has come a long way

It is there leaning against the wall next to my computer desk. Before, I placed it on the entertainment set, but it fell off a couple of times. My wife suggested that I should lay it down somewhere safely otherwise it will break off due to the constant falling. If it is so, my brave adventure with it will amount to nothing. She soundly reminded me.

That's right. Telling the truth, I had so much hard time bringing it to the U.S. that I swore I would never carry one from Laos any more. You might ask what I am talking about. Why is it so hard bringing it to the U.S.?

Yes, it is the Khene - pronouned like "Khaen". As I pride myself on being a true Lao, I have to have to own one. Now, imagine a long instrument about the length of a guitar, but very delicate in its structure that if something hard pressed on it, it might easily be broken off. Once it is broken, it can not be fixed like a guitar while maintaining the same sound quality. Also, this khene is too long to fit my luggage so the only way to bring it to the U.S. is to carry it with me. That is precisely the thing I did.

The story goes...

I bought this Khene at the formerly known as the Morning Market on the last day I stayed in Laos. The reason it took me too long to get one was because I wondered how I could carry all of my stuffs to the U.S. I had two big luggage (one for my clothes along with my books and another containing things from folks at home for folks in the U.S.). Also, on the way to the U.S., I had to stop in Thailand and Japan, not as a transit point but for a stay quite some time. I thought carrying a Khene with me would certainly look countryside not to mention awkward with mountains of luggage all around me. Also, I vividly remembered one event about Khene when I visited a village in Mahaxay district, Khammouane province. To my surprise, the whole village has only one Khene and it was not working well. Worse, there was hardly anyone who could play it. Just imagine Mahaxay district where Khene played such a prominent feature in the district cultural life and where the making of a good Khene was well known, now it becomes more and more a thing of the past. Hurting by that incident, I decided to go on with one at the very last moment.

The journey began at Wattay (Vientiane) airport. Carrying a Khene was not a big deal in one's own country though some might look at me as a country boy. Then the real journey started at DonMuang (Bangkok) airport. There, Thai people watched me with strange looking eyes: some in scorn and some in pride. For those scornful eyes, they seemed to say "here is another Buk Suoy" refering mainly to the Isan country boys. For the those admiring eyes, they mainly came from those who were labeled as Isan people. That day, an influx of Isan people coming home from work in Taiwain due to the recent Asian economic crisis. Though being of a different country, we speak the same language, and not surprisingly, when they saw my Khene, their eyes completely accepted me as one of their own.

Besides the incident of the eyes, everything seemed to go smoothly. At least, they had a car to pick me up at the airport. When I checked in the hotel, with a Khene in my hand, every hotel staff present at that time knew at once that I was not Chinese, Japanese or Korean which some people mistakenly thought of me because of my skin and my one layered lid eyes but Lao and purely Lao. Carrying a U.S. passport and a wallet packed with dollars certainly made the Thai people treat me differently. Talking about this, I remembered one incident very well.

One of my friends from Laos went to buy the airplane tickets. When she presented the airline people her Lao passport, their eyes and demeanor changed for the worse. By intention or not, her passport dropped from the counter. When one of the airline people were about to pick it up for my friend, the other one yelled at him: "Don't do that. She is not our people."

While in Thailand, I left my Khene at the hotel. Still, the spirit of the Khene went with me when I visited Wat PhaKeo and saw PhaKeo who was shamelessly stolen from us like many of our people and territory. Interestingly, most of the taxi drivers in Bangkok were from Isan. At least all of a dozen trips I made around the city were from Isan. When they knew that I was Lao, they distinguished themselves clearly as Lao when talking about Thai people. From their statement, they strongly claimed that Thailand was built on their sweat and blood. Only if they had a leader, Thai people wouldn't be a match to them. Too bad, these strongly built people were virtually a second class citizen even in their own country. On the upbeat side, almost everywhere, Tam Mak Houng or in Thailand they called Som Tam, was a hit. I ate it every day while staying there. There were two kinds of Tam Mak Houng: Lao style and Thai style (to suit the taste of Thai people). I tried Thai style once but it was no match for Lao style in its spiciness and delicious to the bones. The Isan lady who Tam Mak Houng the Lao style while I was visiting Khorat was very pleased to see me finish the full plate of it.

As a cook for the school, whenever Tam Mak Houng was ordered, it was usually of Thai style. By the way, Khorat which was formerly at the frontiers of LanXang and Siam had a mixed population, roughly half Thai and half Lao. According to my "Thai" friend who happened to be of a Lao Khorat, they tended to live in different quarters of the city. This friend grew up in a family of Sieng Khene, sticky rice and PaDek. Because speaking Lao (a betrayal in accent could jeopardize one's chance of getting a government job which most Thai people were coveting at) was considered countryside, she preferred to speak Thai to me. Interestingly, speaking of language, she said that it was Isan language, not Lao which her folks at home spoke; while the Isan taxi drivers whom I talked to clearly said that they spoke Lao. In fact, there was no language as Isan but the Thai wanted to swallow all that was Lao, they put it in the school curriculum that Isan people spoke Isan language. As my Isan friend was all the way up to the university, she was obviously of a Thai mentality while those Isan taxi drivers who were less schooled in the Thai educational system were still able to keep what they truly were deep down in their psyches. It was so rejuvenating to see not a few Isan people claiming to be Lao despite years of cultural assimilation by the Thai. In fact, they had nothing to gain , but instead many to lose, by resisting Thai domination. Yet, as they said adversity made men to be truly men. I would like to take this occasion to bow my head to them, namely Pirk, the driver of the Khorat school district, an art student wishing one day to be a school teacher and a good player of Khene. Like many other Isan people, he was Thai outside but strongly Lao in his psyches.

Also, while visiting Khorat, I put my heavy feet on Thao Suranaree or Gna Mo monument, saw a place where Chao Anou set a camp at Donn Quyn (Fortress of Chariots), and engaged in a heated discussion with the Thai schoolteachers about Chao Anou's war of independence. I was glad that I stood for Chao Anou in the very heart of Thailand where Chao Anou was badly vilified. Also, on the way back to Bangkok by bus, I passed through the range of mountains called Dong Phaya Phay which was naturally divided the territories of LanXang and Siam a couple of centuries ago. Further inside Thailand, I passed through Sarabury a place where most of the ethnic Lao during the earlier war between LanXang and Siam were forcibly relocated. It felt great indeed to breathe the air of those Lao patriots who wholehearted joined Chao Anou in the war of independence, and to relive the heroic act of Chao Ratsavong, our youthful hero. Not surprisingly, Sarabury people of Lao ancestry still talked of Chao Ratsavong, Chao Anou's son, as their hero.

Back in Bangkok, there was one interesting thing I would like to tell you. As I liked to frequent his shop for the Lao food, the owner of the store proudly played the Khene. Before I left, his wife said that the Lao language that I spoke was very sweet. I inferred from that statement that Isan people still thought of Muang Lao as the center of their Laoness.

After a week in Thailand, I left it with a mixed emotion: sad to revisit the country that ate us alive and glad to witness some of us still clinging to their own self. I wish that within my lifetime I will have a chance to see a resurgence of Isan people claiming what is theirs back.

I arrived in Narita (Tokyo) airport late in the afternoon. It was there that I had real trouble with my luggage especially my Khene.

 Because Japan is a country of railway network, the airport is conveniently reached by trains but not by cars. It is claimed that it will take you 1/3 of the time traveling by train than by car. Anyway, riding a bullet train still takes me over two hours to get to downtown Tokyo. For the sake of convenience and efficiency, the Japanese had me traveled by train, they just didn't realize that I had too many luggage. Worse, they didn't plan to have my luggage stayed at the airport. Maybe, they did so just to try out how tough I was. Who knows?

So the journey began...

To get to the train, I had to go downstairs. Luckily, there was an elevator. Pushing the cart into the elevator was all right. Then, at a checking point to the train station, no cart was allowed. I had to carry the luggage two at a time, and then went back to pick up the rest. If that was all, it would be fine with me. Instead, the train platform was another story below the checking point. The only way to get there was through stairs. Just look at how many steps the stairs were, I almost fainted because there was no less than 50. By the time I got to the platform, my arms and limbs couldn't even budge. Still, I was not in the spot of where I was supposed to be. I wondered why I couldn't board the train where people were waiting to go to the very place I would be going, why I had to drag myself another ¼ a mile. When the train arrived, about one tenth of the seats was occupied. I was kind of mad to be assigned a seat, why not let the commuters sit wherever they wanted? Until later did I find out. After a couple of stops, all seats were occupied. Wow! The Japanese were so efficient that everything was controlled by the computer, namely the seating. The Japanese seating close by were kind of curious to see my Khene laying next to me. Maybe, the were too polite or maybe they didn't speak English, they just gazed at my Khene. I, myself, was so absorbed with the Japanese scenery: the villages, the fields, the mountains, the rivers and the city. Yes, they looked different with clean streets, people waiting in line to cross the street even there was not traffic in sight (they were waiting for the light to turn green).

By the time, I got to the arrival station, I was stunned that time was flying so fast. Again at this station, there was no elevator to go upstairs, it was really a pain to carry stuffs up with so many people hurriedly walking up and down the stairs. As usual, I had to carry two luggage at a time but this time I was worried my other left luggage which were out of sight because of the crowd. What would happen if I came back and didn't see my luggage? What could I do? To my relief, all were fine except one thing, my Khene. It wasn't there and I wasn't sure whether I left it in the train or at the platform. At times, I thought what the heck of it. Without the Khene, I could manage to go anywhere without going back and forth. I could carry both luggage in both hands with hanging my camera bag onto my shoulder. Still, the thought of going home without a Khene troubled me. I remembered reading about Japanese people that they were honest people and that nobody took what was not his or hers. With that in mind, I mentioned this to the person who came to pick me up at the train station that I might leave my Khene in the train. She said that she would contact the train company and see if they could find it. As advertised, my Khene was returned to me the following morning. What a luck! So my Khene became my shadow while dropping by a number of places in Tokyo: first, to the apartment, then to the hotel and to the Lao restaurant called "LanXang" where they served Lao beer, Tam Mak Houng, Larb and sticky rice, and finally to the coffee shop where I met Ai Outhin Bounyavong, a premiere writer of short stories. I learned from his wife, Euay DouangDeuane, while visiting Laos that he had taken a teaching job on the Lao language at Tokyo University. As I would drop by Tokyo for a couple of days, I thought I might be able to see him so I asked for his phone number. Luckily, he was free the very last day I was about to leave for the U.S. We met at the coffee shop. By that time, I had only a Khene and my camera bag with me for they already arranged to have my luggage sent to the airport. There was one interesting thing to mention about Ai Outhin. When I first called him, he was not at home. It was the answering machine that received my call. The greeting said;" Sabaydii, Ni Man Bane Khong Outhin Bounyavong...." Yes, it was in Lao followed by either Japanese or English greeting I didn't remember. Wow! What a way to present your Laoness to the Japanese and the outside world. It was the first time I heard a greeting in Lao from any answering machine outside Laos. It was so sweet and so telling of Ai Outhin as a Lao patriot.

Telling the truth, it was only the 2^nd time I met him. The first was about 17 years ago. I still remembered his way of beginning a short story by making the first sentence concise and straight to the point. It went like: "She sat there motionlessly."

The story was about a woman whose portrait decorated the front window of the photography shop in Vientiane. Every passerby whose eyes happened to fall on the portrait just couldn't help admiring her beautiful smile. Then the story was kind of tracing back to the owner of that smile, how she left the country and settled in New York with the first wave of refugees, and how the smile was more and more a thing of the past as she was stuck in a high rising building with no one to talk to and no one to understand. It will do a lot of justice if you can read it by yourself. Besides, I read the story over 17 years ago. Still, I remembered the picture he painted very well. That could tell you how powerful the story was. By the way, It was entitled "That Smile" and was translated into the Thai language. Thinking of the story again, I was kind of sad to leave the country where every single Lao was most needed.

I would love to talk about some of the people who are more or less like Ai Outhin such Bounthanong, another fellow writer, Euay Dara and Euay DouangDeuane, the daughters of Maha Sila Viravong who are the well know writers themselves, Euay Mayouri, a Lao historian and researcher, and Loung Houmphanh, an ardent preserver of Lao culture and heritage. I think I will leave them for my next story devoted specially to Laos.

Ai Outhin was very pleased that I had brought a Khene from Laos with me. Still, he asked where I got it. He told me that the best Khene should be from Nam Ngum. He knew the maker of Khene since he had build another house of a Lao style over there by the river. In his vision, he planned to use it as a library to store all Lao books, and also a place for the gathering of Lao writers. He confided with me that the quality of writing in Laos was very bad compared to the time before 1975. Up to recently, in order to have more leeway, he focused his writing mainly on young kids. No matter what he wrote, they were in good quality and, as a result, some of his works were translated in many languages namely French and English. With me, I have a collection of his recent works kindly provided to me by my wife, Euay DouangDeuane.

While in Tokyo, I met a Japanese guy with a boyish looking face. His name is Othsuka. I knew him through email. Through this guy, I had a chance to see another side of Japan. It was kind of a red light district, and it was well know throughout Japan. This quarter of Tokyo was very alive during the night. Its many streets were crowded with business dressed male who were hanging around after work and pretty women who were looking for cheap money. Adding neon lights from the adult bookstores, nude dancing places, high skyrocketing buildings, and blaring noises from the passing cars and shouting sex salesman, this place seemed to be never at sleep.

At the corner of one street, my eyes happened to fall on one couple, a business dressed male and a tight skirt female busily kissing one another. I thought of recording the scene but just stopped my video camera for some untold reasons. I jokingly said to Othsuka that this video intrusion might upset them. Othsuka answered with a weird smile that :"No, it won't but, instead, they will kill you."

We smell this quarter of Tokyo until most of the business dressed male were about to leave this place in herds. Yes, it was almost midnight and the last train around would arrive very soon. When we got to the station, the place was swelled with all sorts of people, and they strode faster than usual. Once the train arrived, everybody was for oneself dashing in as fast as one could. Here, there was no courtesy, no giving in seat to older people or female. You were considered lucky to get in. Most of the time riding a train meant standing on the train with people's breath on your neck, and their bodies rubbing on you each time the train made a stop. I remembered my Russian friend who jokingly said to his Japanese wife when we were riding on the train the other day: "The Japanese are considered to be very polite people except in the train. Here, there is no excuse me, no anything." Looking at her, I couldn't help thinking of Othsuka's words: "The Japanese women are nothing more than a sexual object. They are treated badly by their male counterparts. Worse, they accept that role. I hate Japanese women. On the other hand, I like Lao women wearing Sinh. The sight of Lao schoolgirls wearing Sinh to school really fascinates me. That's why I like to visit Laos whenever I can." In fact, this Othsuka went to Laos a dozen times already and had a Lao girlfriend. What amazed me about him was that he could speak, read and write Lao better than most of our young Lao kids in the U.S. That was not all. He could play Khene too. I wondered how he could do all that while working over half a day and had only 4 or 5 hours of sleep every night (it took him over two hours to get to work and another two hours to get back home). I would like to take this occasion to thank him for his kindness taking care of everything for me starting from the train tickets to paying for the hefty Lao meal. Without him, I would see Japan only on one side.

At Narita airport on the last day in Japan, an American guy saw my Khene while I was waiting to board the plane to the U.S. He said "Thailand?" "No" I proudly answered "Lao". Yes, Khene could never be anything else but Lao.

...

Glancing at my Khene again, I couldn't help smiling at it. No one knows how much I grow attached to it, and no one knows what it means to me. This Khene as well as any Khene is not only a musical instrument but it is us, our root, our hope, and our life. Like the saying that goes:

"Wherever the Khene is played, the Lao is there."

If only I hold everything I do to my heart the way I carry the Khene, I will sure make Muang Lao and Quon Lao proud. Maybe, one day, or maybe until the day I can manage to play the Khene the way our ancestors play it. Until that day...

Let me end the story with this free verse:

I will some day

Lan Tae, Tae Lae Lae Lan Tae ...

Beautiful is the Khene

Riveting is its sound

Meaningful is its tone

When you hear it

It transports you back

To where

once the two banks of the Mekong river was Lao

to when

our hearts were pounding at the same beat

and to why

sacrificing one's life for one's country was more precious

than serving under other others.

I will one day play it

With all of my heart and soul

For all Lao to listen

To remember

And to not forget

What we once were

And where we always wanted to be

Remember

What Chao Anou said

In San Lub Bo Soun (the indestructible message)

"Born to the lion life,

won't it be a shame

to hide under the shallow grass?"

If you are a true Lao,

You will know what I mean

Lan Tae, Tae Lae Lae Lan Tae ...

Hakphaang,

Kongkeo Saycocie

Once upon a time...

 

The photo album lays open.

 

My grandpa holds me in his arm in front of the post office where I was born in Xieng Khouang. There is a smile on my lips.

Wait! Look at my eyes. They were really bright. For a baby who had just seen the world, was not everything wonderful? In contrast, my grandpa's eyes were sad. At the time, there was a contest of power in Xieng Khouang between the Pathet Lao and the Royal Government forces. War was ominous. Before I knew anything, we were on the plane to Savannakhet. From then on, only the pictures and my parents' word of mouth reminded me that I had once lived there.

In another picture, I am standing straight with two of my sisters in the backyard of the Savannakhet post office, which was used as both a residential place and a business premise. At that time, I was 80r 9. I remember Savannakhet. It was really a booming town in the early 60s. The downtown area was very active. The night market stood out with brightly-lit noodle stands (pho and mee) and hundreds of customers hanging around.

Maybe because of the American secret involvement in the air bombing of the Pathet Lao controlled area, especially Xieng Khouang and Sam Neua, Savannakhet's Air Force Base was heavily pumped with war materials such as the famous T -28 planes and millions of U.S. dollars. As a result, Savannakhet economy was booming: U.S. dollars flew out of T -28 pilots' pockets as if they were just plain papers. One could say that Savannakhet Air Force Base was better equipped than even Vieng Chan's. In fact, because of the visible American involvement, this base was so powerful that its commander, General Ma, dared to attempt a coup d'etat in the late 60s and early 70s.

If you ask: do I like Savannakhet? The answer is an obvious "yes". In Savannakhet, my family belonged to one of the most influential and wealthy circles. I personally, like it because my half-brother was a T-28 pilot of whom almost every girl could not keep her eyes off. Besides, if I were still there, I would have ended up being a T -28 pilot like him. Too bad, my dad did not like to live in the spotlight so we had to move to Thakek where he was born, had grown up, and where the Say&ocie families were dominant in the late 60s.

Next picture, I see myself playing soccer in front of the post office. The year was either 1968 or 69. The Lao soccer national team had beaten the Thai soccer national team 4 to 3 for the first time in the King Cup. When the final whistle was blown (I listened to the live broadcast by the Thai radio), I cried out in jubilation.

SomNeuk, Vatthana, Upekkha, and Pheng Savan became national household names.

It was also in Thakek that I was first attracted to a person of the opposite sex. In one of the class in "Ecole Charite", I was assigned to sit between two pretty Vietnamese girls. I gave one of them a rose. I was a young schoolboy in love.

Also, when I was in the 6th grade, I was lucky to have a teacher who was an ardent patriot. He aroused in me the love for the country and a deep sense of justice of which until now are very endeared in my heart. If you ask: dol1ike Thakek? It's hard to answer. Compared to Savannakhet, Thakek was a sleepy town.

One thing I .like about it was its captivating scenery with towering mountains all around like the wall enclosed. Looking from the Nakhon Phanom bank which I like to frequent, Thakek was like a magic place floating between towering mountains and fleeting clouds. Thakek was also known for its many tributaries with clear and green body of water where people liked to go picnic. Too bad, it was in Thakek that my family sunk down in terms of wealth and power, of which we never recuperated. It was the first time that I had to use my own labor to push a cart of water for my family to use at home.

In another picture, I am standing with my whole family in front of the newly-built post office in ThaDeua, Vieng Chan. It was in ThaDeua that I really excelled in education. I was placed first every month, even in painting, of which I hardly touched. It was in ThaDeua that I first wrote poetry, and the teacher loved it.

In addition to my painting, I also had a good singing voice. It was known that I was the first one from that school to go into Lycee de Vieng Chan. Besides school, ThaDeua was too much a town that was culturally Thai-oriented, e.g., Thai music, TV programs. For Vieng Chan people, ThaDeua was just a gateway to NongKhai, or an eating picnic during the weekend at its many riverside restaurants.

The next picture, I see myself standing at Phon Khen defense headquarters with my classmates and the whole s body of Lycee de Vieng Chan. I remember that thilling day of December 2nd, we gathered at Phon Keng to listen to the leaders of the revolution speak. In fact, we hardly slept that night before because we had to get up around 3 or 4 am to be in line for the march to celebrate the event. Thinking back, I am at awe at how energetic and revolutionary (maybe insane too) we were in our late teens and early twenties.

Now, looking back at those pictures 20 years later, I am in a

loss of words. Of those who actively participated in that event,how many of them have left? For those who remained behind, how many of them have been disillusioned? If and only if, revolution was a really a revolution, some of us might have been drastically different then. I, for one, could testify to that.

Let me sum up with these questions. Who wants to leave the place where he/she was born and grew up? Who wants to be stranded in anew, drastically different culture? Who does not want to contribute to the well-being of one's people and the progress of one's country? And who doesn't want to be proud of giving his/her heart and soul to the glory of our beloved country? Tell me.

The last picture, I am standing in front of Lycee de Vieng Chan with my female friend whom I wholeheartedly loved. Her house was near Dong Dok, but she stayed in the dorm during the school days. Because I was kind of shy, I never mentioned that I loved her. I had wished that she would know herself through my many acts. I rode a bicycle everyday from Bane Sisavath to DongDok during the summer break to teach her mathematics. I took her to see my parents at home. I hoped through these acts that she would know; I was really serious about her.

At that time, I was too stupid. When I saw that her friend frequented her house every time I went there, I thought she had fallen for him. Because of that foolish assumption, I stopped seeing her out of frustration. Whenever I went to see her, that guy was already there, so I had to go without seeing her day in and day out, until the day before I left Laos. You know what? When I dared to say that I loved her from the first time I had seen her and even today, she unexpectedly told me, "You never tell me that you love me." Even today, I still cannot erase that scar, that love, from my memory. Maybe, one day, I will go back and see her again, not as lovers, but as the builders of our beloved country, Muang Lao.

I sit motionless for a while, look at the photo album for the last time, and then extend my hand to close it.

Hakphaang,