Because I was out of town with my car up on a jack on Tuesday, I wasn't able to get to the apartment until nighttime. I know that people (the hospice doctor and nurse, Thuy, and various friends and neighbors who helped with the funeral arrangements, like Tioy) had been in and out all afternoon and evening, but I just wanted to stop and be there for a few minutes—maybe give everyone a hug and be on my way. Koukaï was resting or sleeping and never came out of her room, but little Koukaï came out after a while, full of questions and comments.
"Je suis triste parce que Mamie n'y est plus, mais je suis contente parce qu'elle ne souffre plus" ("I'm sad because Grammy isn't there anymore, but I'm happy because she no longer suffers.") I couldn't have said it better myself! Then she asked me why her grandmother's insides had to be drained, why she was cold, and what the room looked liked where she was now. I did my best to answer, and she seemed happy with my responses. Phew!
First, it seemed like random Laotian people populated the apartment and front yard of Bounthong's place constantly, starting Tuesday afternoon, swinging into high gear on Wednesday, and expected to hit a high on Saturday evening. Apparently, when someone in the community dies, it's OK to just show up a the family's house, eat your fill, waste whatever you want (after all, you didn't have to pay for it), and drink yourself silly (or, say, pissy—see later). Wednesday night, I talked to Koukaï while she worked: prepping, cooking, fetching, and cleaning up just over 24 hours after watching her mother take her last breath. Nonstop hadn't quite stopped yet.
This evening, I figured that I needed to see it all for myself and that I could lighten Koukaï's load a bit and give her a chance to talk if she wanted to. So I went over to help: I washed dishes; cleared trash from the tables; stocked the coolers; chopped onions, chiles, and garlic; washed greens and herbs. I met Uncle Sy, from Las Vegas, who had hoped to arrive to visit with Bounthong but didn't make it.
Although I don't understand the Lao language and couldn't tell whether most people were talking about Bounthong or the weather, I did overhear some 20-something guys yammering (in English) about where they had lived before, New Hampshire, the Laotian community, yadda yadda.
Late in the evening, probably around 10 pm, I was in the bathroom washing out some jumbo mixing bowls in the bathtub. One of those guys stood outside the bathroom for a few minutes, apparently just watching me bent over the tub (um, thanks for that). Finally, he spoke up. "Uh, d'ya think I could take a piss first?"
More than a little annoyed, I looked up at him with the blankest look I could muster and volleyed back another question: "Could you wait 5 minutes?" After all, he wasn't a little kid and surely had control of his bladder. Besides, I was working while he was playing (which clearly was not an issue between Laotian men and women, I had observed), and he probably didn't even know Bounthong or at least had never used that bathroom before. So I proceeded to scrub and rinse.
Before I was quite finished (just a minute or so later), the same guy does a little dance and whines, "I don't think I can hold it!" Geez, I think, aren't you a guy? Can't you take a whizz out back?)
I quickly wiped out the tub with a paper towel, gathered up my stuff, and left the bathroom without looking at him. "Maybe you shouldn't drink so much beer," I joked (not really).
Later, Koukaï told me that a woman she had never seen before told her that she'd make a great house servant! Incredulous, Koukaï had simply stared, then turned and walked back to the kitchen. Then the same woman asked another who "that girl" was. "She's the daughter of the woman who died," replied the woman-in-the-know.
What can I say? On a eu du fun! It was a blast! The weather was perfect, the architecture was amazing, the best music was free, the cheeses were plentiful and delicious, and the people were nice. The city has a very European feel—like France, but without that attitude that English speakers sometimes experience—but with a distinct North American vibe. Still, Marina and I spoke French at every opportunity. I’d go back in a heartbeat. Check out some pix in my Picasa album!
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