by Brett Dakin
Alone
_______
The first time I met her was at a party, but I’d seen her before that Saturday night, many times. Vientiane is a small place, after all, and I had noticed her around town, at the restaurants and pubs. She spent a lot of her time around foreigners, men and women, which immediately set her apart from most other Lao women her age. I knew from observing her, even from afar, that Kee was unusual. She was lively and unabashed in her speech and gestures, never bothering to cover her mouth, for example, when she laughed. Her appearance was boyish: closely cropped, spiky hair; blue jeans and a faded T-shirt. It was nearly impossible to imagine her in the sin and silk blouse that most women around Vientiane wore. Demure she was not. And Kee spoke English—not perfectly, by any means, but well enough to engage in the playful banter that seemed to dominate her interactions with the foreigners she knew. By spending so much time around foreign men, I knew that Kee had made a choice. And for a Lao woman in her early twenties, that choice could be dangerous.
This party had been in the planning stages for some time. People had been talking it up, anticipating what promised to be a fun night at the home of two expats I knew well: Sarah and Melanie. Sarah was a few years older than I, a primary-school teacher from Holland who had been hired by the Dutch community in Vientiane to teach their children. We had been friends since my first days in Vientiane, before her boyfriend from home had joined her. After he arrived in Laos and moved in with Sarah, we had inevitably grown apart, but I’d made an effort to keep in touch, and we still had dinner occasionally. Sarah and her boyfriend lived together for a while, but things didn’t work out—for one thing, he couldn’t find a job—and he left the country after a few months. Sarah soon picked up and moved in with Melanie, an Australian of about the same age, who taught English at a private language school. Melanie was larger-than-life, always dressed in wonderful, bright clothing. Her tie-dyed shirts and bell-bottoms were straight out of the 1970s. She had a prominent nose-ring, and traces of glitter often graced her face. Melanie tended to speak in riddles, and I was never quite sure how seriously to take her. She and Sarah smoked constantly, and they liked a good vodka tonic.
What I loved most of all about Sarah and Melanie was their deep affection for Laos, and their enthusiasm about life in Vientiane. They were exuberant about the culture, the local traditions, and the people they knew. Entirely absent from any conversation with these two were the sullen lamentations about life in Laos that marked discussions with many other expats in town. Sarah in particular was taken with Laos—and remained so even after her house had been broken into—and would speak about her life there with such excitement that I wondered if she’d ever return to Holland. Like me, she felt lucky to have been granted the opportunity to live and work in Vientiane, and was determined to make the most of it.
Sarah and Melanie had poured a lot of effort into this particular party, going so far as to print up invitations and craft a theme for the evening: “Come as you are not.” The idea was for people to dress as differently as possible from the way they ordinarily did. In essence, they encouraged guests to adopt entirely new personas for the evening. I’m usually not one for costumes, but I gave in to Melanie’s unrelenting pressure, and on the afternoon of the party I set about putting something together.
I knew exactly where to head: just off Thadeua Road, near the banks of the main canal that ran through the center of town, where a series of impromptu tents had been set up. The proprietor of one offered to repair old shoes; another fixed watches; and a third—armed with large sheets of transparent plastic, an electric iron, and a clamp—provided lamination services. In the fourth tent, which served as a sort of Lao Salvation Army, you could find shirts, jackets, and shoes that, while they had been discarded, were in perfectly good condition. To the great amusement of the elderly woman who sat underneath the parachute that served as her umbrella and awning, I began trying on the old clothing, most of which was far too small. While creativity in dressing is hardly my forte, with some help I eventually came up with an outfit that looked ridiculous enough: a fluorescent orange and pink T-shirt, a blue jean-jacket from which the sleeves had been torn, and a pair of old Converse sneakers. With enough grease in my hair, I managed to look like a psychedelic James Dean, which, all things considered, wasn’t bad. In any case, it wasn’t me.
Late that evening, I walked over to Melanie and Sarah’s place, just a few blocks—or temples, really—from mine. As I passed through the grounds of Wat Ong Teu, I greeted the novices who were lounging about outside their dormitory. They seemed unfazed by my absurd get-up. Just another crazy falang out for a stroll. As I approached my friends’ house, I could hear the familiar strains of Cuban jazz drifting out into the warm night air. I immediately recognized the album: the Buena Vista Social Club, which was fast becoming something of a soundtrack to my life in Vientiane. During the previous weeks and months, whenever I’d been to a friend’s home for dinner or a party, I had inevitably heard the heavy brass and joyous rhythms of the Havana masters. Whenever I did, I always thought of Chanh, who must have danced to this music in Cuba.
You see, there was only one CD shop in Vientiane that sold non-Lao (or Thai) music, and every young Westerner I knew shopped there. The tall, tanned, fit and friendly Frenchman who owned the shop along with his Lao wife, traveled to Bangkok occasionally to buy Western music, ranging from jazz to hip-hop, classical to rock. He’d make copies of the CDs at an undisclosed location in Vientiane, and then sell them at his shop for a few dollars. His selection was excellent—no Britney Spears or boy bands here—and you couldn’t beat the price. It was limited though, and before long, everyone in Vientiane had the same music. If I ever heard any new tunes around town, I’d know that the Frenchman had recently returned from Bangkok, and it was time to pay him a visit.
When I arrived at the party, the festivities were well under way. All the usual suspects were present. Sarah and Melanie were resplendent in sequins and pearls, high heels and mascara. In the dining room, converted into a dance floor, Jon, a lawyer from Oregon who now worked on environmental issues in Laos and Vietnam, was in a tutu. Michel was there as well, dancing up a storm in his loose, organic style. And then there was the inimitable Danny, a large, bearded red-head and computer specialist from New Zealand, outfitted in black combat boots and fixing himself a drink or three in the kitchen.
But expats weren’t the only ones at the party. The best thing about gatherings like these was that they always attracted a good mixture of foreigners and their Lao students, colleagues, and friends. These two groups, despite vast differences in culture, language, and life experience, interacted with effortless comfort and ease. Of course, the Lao were often amused and even perplexed by the strange traditions of their foreign friends (at this party, only a few had taken the hosts up on their suggestion to wear a costume) and there was some inevitable segregation. But, for the most part, the atmosphere was one of free and equal exchange. As far apart as these people might have been—I often wondered what on earth a young man from Croydon or Tasmania had in common with a guy from the suburbs of Vientiane—they respected one another and got along well. On the other hand, this interaction only went so far. Romantic relationships across the cultural divide were extremely rare; only a handful of young expats had taken the plunge with a Lao man or woman. Of those who did, most failed, and quickly.
That night, I was in the mood to dance, and I soon joined the growing crowd on the makeshift dance floor. Sarah had replaced the Buena Vista Social Club with Earth, Wind, and Fire, and already there wasn’t much space to move. I danced all the time in Vientiane, but mostly at wedding receptions and old-fashioned nightclubs. The lam vong, which demanded delicacy and restraint, just wasn’t the same as this disco. Lost among the guests at Sarah and Melanie’s, a few feet from the towering speakers they had rented for the evening, I felt a freedom I hadn’t felt in some time. Released from the constraints of traditional Lao custom, I let loose.
I’m not sure when I first saw Kee that night. At some point, though, I found myself dancing opposite her. I was immediately taken by her full lips and broad, warm smile. In a tight grey T-shirt and camouflage military trousers, she had managed to wear a costume and look good at the same time. I leaned forward, brushing her smooth cheek with mine as I shouted an introduction in her ear. She did the same. Soon enough, her hands were around my waist, and our bodies were close. I knew that people were watching—the next day, word would spread quickly—but perhaps the combination of the alcohol and the heat led me to ignore the attention.
After a few songs, I suggested we go outside for some air. As we sat on the front steps, near the herd of motorbikes parked out front, Kee told me a bit about her life. She worked at a bar downtown, but still lived with her family in a small village a few kilometers outside Vientiane. She had yet to save up enough money to buy a motorbike, and was stuck with only a bicycle. As she spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the sweat that accentuated the spikes in her hair. It glistened in the light. I placed my hand on the back of her neck, and felt the sweat against my skin. When I offered her a ride home on the Honda Dream, still parked at my house, she accepted without hesitation.
Before I knew it, we were stumbling toward my house, hand-in-hand, carefully avoiding the gaping holes in the pavement that led to the drains below, relics of the sewerage system the French had installed a century before. I’ve no idea what time it was by then, but it must have been late, as the streets were deserted. The rush of motorbikes that hit downtown at about one o’clock, when the city’s nightclubs shut their doors and the teenagers made their way home, had already come and gone. We probably made more noise than we should have, and a neighborhood dog barked its disapproval. As we passed through the temple grounds, I wouldn’t be surprised if we inadvertently roused the novices from their slumber. If not the novices, then the neighbors. Informal militias throughout Laos, along with neighborhood committees, were responsible for maintaining public order and reporting instances of moral turpitude to the Interior Ministry. Every so often, I would run into an armed militia volunteer strolling about the neighborhood, making sure everything was in order. Someone was always watching, and listening.
Safely inside the house and behind closed doors, leaning against the wall in my living room, we kissed for the first time. It was a clumsy affair, I’m sure. But it was nice. Her lips tasted good. So did her neck, slightly salty from the sweat. The supposed ride home was quickly forgotten.
While Kee was in the shower, I went upstairs to my bedroom. I turned on the two powerful ceiling fans in an attempt to cut down on the heat, and also to create some background noise. I could hear most everything my neighbors did. A baby’s scream, the lively conversation at a dinner party—I heard it all. Just a few nights before, I’d woken up to a heated argument between the Vietnamese couple that lived next door. Eventually, the words had softened, and I thought they had come to a resolution. Later, though, I could hear the quiet sound of tears. In this weather, I couldn’t close the windows, so I relied on the fans to keep the neighbors out of my life.
As I lay in bed, waiting for Kee to come upstairs, I thought about the neighbors. I also thought about how Kee was feeling, what she was thinking. I probably thought as well about what the morning would bring. But when Kee finally crawled into bed with me, I stopped thinking.
___
It was early afternoon by the time I stirred, and Kee was still asleep. I gazed at her body for some time, dwelling on each of the features I liked the most, before she finally woke up. She seemed exhausted, as if she hadn’t had a good sleep in months. Unfortunately, though, we couldn’t lie there forever, and Kee quickly got going. After all, her parents would be wondering. Refusing a ride, she left for the bar where she worked, and where she had left her bicycle. On her way out the door, she wondered aloud if she would see me again. “I’m sure you will,” I answered, and waved good-bye.
But the truth was, I wasn’t sure at all. It had been wonderful, but the more I thought about Kee, the more I began to worry. Who was this girl, after all? I didn’t know her age. I wasn’t even sure of her name. Above all, I couldn’t separate any potential relationship with her from the fact that I was a foreigner, and she a Lao. In cities across Asia, I’d seen white men and Asian women together, and they had often made me feel uneasy. The cultural disparity and power imbalance was striking. I couldn’t escape what many people, on both sides of the cultural divide, thought about couples like these: that the men only cared about the sex, and the women just wanted the money—and perhaps even a ticket to the West. Of course, this was not always, or even usually, the case, but the perception was widely held. I had never had a relationship with an Asian woman, and I’m sure this was partly due to my discomfort with the whole idea. Back in the States, people spoke derisively of men with an “Asian fetish.” It seems silly to me now to have felt so strongly about it, but I was determined not to end up a mere stereotype.
After I showered and dressed, I tried to go about my usual routine. I spent a few hours at the office working on a brochure with Seng. He joined me for lunch at the noodle shop next door to the office. After work, I went to the gym, and then met Michel at the Liao Ning dumpling shop for a quick dinner. But I couldn’t really concentrate on much, and I was preoccupied throughout the day. My mind was elsewhere, and I went to sleep thinking about Kee.
The next morning, when I stumbled downstairs to take a shower, I was still half asleep. But as I passed by the living room, I noticed that something wasn’t quite right. Usually, the morning sun streamed through the glass doors that opened onto the living room. But that morning, the room was entirely dark. After a moment, I realized that the outer metal gate had been pulled shut. I never closed this gate unless I went away for more than a few days. Perhaps, I thought, the landlady had closed it as a security measure. I hadn’t put on my glasses yet, so I couldn’t see very well. But as I moved toward the front of the living room, I did notice some pink coloring on the inner glass doors. Upon closer inspection, I saw that these pink spots were in fact words. The large, clumsy letters had been scrawled in pink lipstick on the outside of the door on the right. I opened it so that I could properly read the following words:
“Do you remember me? I am Kee. Call me. 212 345. Do not forget me! Kee.”
She must have come over in the middle of the night, left her message, and then pulled the gate shut to hide it. Had she knocked? Had I been asleep at the time? Had anyone seen her? After the initial surprise, my first thought was that the words had to be erased as soon as possible. I could hear the couple next door getting ready to leave for work, and the last thing I needed was for them to discover a message scrawled in hot pink lipstick on their neighbor’s door. In nothing but my towel, wrapped tightly around my waist, I went to the kitchen for a bucket of water, soap and a sponge, and quickly washed the lipstick away. Looking back on it now, I am surprised by how uncomfortable Kee’s message made me feel. I might just as well have been overjoyed at her words. I might even have taken a photograph. Instead, I was in such a hurry to get rid of the words that I didn’t even write down her number.
I doubt this was an oversight. I was frightened. I was afraid to get too close. After all, what did Kee and I have in common? How would a relationship between us ever last? What would we talk about? I couldn’t bring myself to limit my thoughts to the short term, to simply view things casually. I knew that there really was no such a thing as a “casual” relationship in Laos. It simply wasn’t done. Things were changing, yes, but Laos remained an extremely traditional society, and women weren’t expected to become involved with men outside of marriage. So when I thought of a relationship with Kee, I thought immediately of the other foreign men I’d met in Vientiane who had married Lao women and were now struggling with the cultural clash. Not to mention the administrative nightmare of securing a visa so their wives could actually visit their homes and families back in the West.
But most fright
ening of all was the thought that I might fall for Kee. Then where would I be? Images of her on the back of my motorbike, visiting me every night after work, sleeping at my house, and eventually moving in—all of these appeared in my mind as clearly as if they had already occurred. In many ways, of course, they struck me as wonderful, beautiful, as exactly what I wanted in my life. I was lonely, living by myself in a large house, far from home. I hadn’t been in a serious relationship in years. But my thoughts always returned to the moment when I would have to leave. I had returned to work there for another year, but I wouldn’t be in Laos forever.
So, without even giving it a chance, I decided not to pursue a relationship with Kee. This decision took some self restraint, to be sure. I liked her a lot, and I needed someone. But restraint had never been a problem for me. At its root, this decision was all about my cowardice. I just couldn’t bring myself to fall for Kee. So I left it. In any case, I convinced myself, I didn’t have her number. I couldn’t call her. Rather than confronting my feelings for Kee, I ran away from them. Or, at least, I tried.
___
About a week later, some time after midnight, I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. It wasn’t easy, given the heat and the thoughts that wouldn’t leave me. All of a sudden, I heard a loud banging on the glass doors downstairs. I knew immediately who it was. The banging persisted, followed by the rattling of the metal gate outside.
At the foot of the stairs, I stopped at the doorway of the living room and peered out through the glass doors. Sure enough, there she was, pacing back and forth outside. She was wearing a Walkman, and holding a can of beer. Before she had a chance to make her presence known again, I hurried over and opened the front door. The music in her Walkman, Nicole’s latest, was so loud I could hear it through her headphones. She began to shout, so I quickly pulled her inside, and then shut and locked the door.
