When I showed up in Vientiane nearly a half-century later, in the autumn of 1998, to work at the National Tourism Authority of the Lao People’s Democratic Republic, not much had changed.  The airport consisted of a single small building; local farmers freely crossed the crumbling runway with buffalo in tow.  Mobile phones were very rare, Internet access reserved for the privileged few (and extremely patient).  Foreign tourists were scarce, as the government had only recently begun to allow visitors to easily enter the country.  The central Morning Market was still about the only place where people shopped; for anything other than the “debris of civilization,” the better-off made a run for the border and crossed into Thailand.  Greene had complained about the dearth of offerings at the local movie house, but when I arrived there was not a single working cinema in the entire country.

While the sleepiness of the Lao capital had bored Greene (“Vientiane is a century away from Saigon,” he wrote, with derision), to me it was a revelation.  The absence of the trappings of modernity, so unique among the world’s capitals at the century’s end, along with the intimacy it afforded—this was precisely what I found interesting about Vientiane, and what prompted me to write about the city and its diverse inhabitants.  Where else in the world could one live across the street from an ancient Buddhist temple, where one’s landlord’s ancestors were buried, and awake at dawn to the sounds of the steady beat of the monks’ drumming?  Teach conversational English to the richest man in the country and, after work, study French with the Polish ambassador?  Dine in style with the president’s daughter, then share a beer with a neighbor whose livelihood depended on his chickens’ productivity?  Unlike Greene, I knew why I had bothered to travel across the world to Vientiane.

As the first decade of the twenty-first century draws to a close, Vientiane is no longer a century away from Saigon—or even New York, where I now live.  I have just returned from a visit to the city, on the verge of celebrating the 450th anniversary of its establishment as the nation’s capital.  Money now flows through the streets of Vientiane—and not simply development aid from the West.  There is real investment taking place, especially from Laos’ neighbors in the region.  When I lived in Laos there was not more than a handful of traffic lights in the country; there is now one every few blocks in Vientiane.  Back in the saddle of a motorbike after so many years, I marveled at the phenomenon of rush-hour traffic as I weaved my way through the lines of hulking SUVs.  I often became hopelessly lost: entire neighborhoods have popped up in areas where a few years ago there were rice fields.  Friends, Lao and expatriate alike, now document every moment of their lives and connect with the wider world through Facebook.  And tourism has boomed.  I stopped by the NTA to pick up a copy of the latest report from the Statistics Unit, which an old colleague now runs, and the official numbers told the story: two million tourists visited Laos in 2009, four times as many as had made the trip in 1998, the year I arrived.

The era in Vientiane’s history that is captured in the pages of this book has passed.  In some ways, that is certainly a good thing; in others, I must admit, I am not so sure.  Ultimately, beneath its newly polished surface, Vientiane continues to struggle with many of the same problems I documented a decade ago—challenges that are more urgent now than ever.

The occasion for the glittering event, and my visit to Vientiane, was the First Meeting of States Parties to the Convention on Cluster Munitions, a new international treaty banning the very weapon that the U.S. had used in Laos during the Vietnam War and which continues to devastate the country today.  It was fitting that Laos, one of the first countries to sign the treaty, was hosting the meeting: the U.S. bombing campaign from 1964 to 1973 had left millions of unexploded cluster submunitions in the country, affecting 25% of all villages.  Nearly four decades after the war ended, children in Laos are still being injured and even killed by these weapons on a regular basis.  More than 110 governments had sent representatives to the Vientiane meeting, as well as UN agencies, international organizations and a host of non-governmental organizations.  Among the attendees were many persons with disabilities, prompting the organizers to work with hotels and other facilities around town to ensure accessibility.  This was the largest such meeting Laos had ever hosted—a feat impossible to imagine when I had lived there—and the government was determined to put on a good show.

I spotted the interim U.S. ambassador, in attendance at the dinner despite his government’s failure to accede to the treaty, and joined him for a few moments in the VIP section.  Tuxedoed waiters in white gloves served platters of food catered by the Lao Plaza Hotel, where I had done my weekly aerobics years before.  The items listed on the printed menus at each place, including braised shark’s fin and Roasted Duck Hong Kong, reminded me of the ever increasing Chinese influence in Lao affairs.  The rest of us, thankfully, were free to graze at the buffet serving good old-fashioned Lao standards like white and purple sticky rice, succulent grilled chicken, and rice noodles in curry soup. On stage, a festive performance organized by the Ministry of Information and Culture was well under way.  In between bites, I caught glimpses of young men and women in traditional Lao dress dancing in formation to familiar national tunes.  A fashion show celebrated the costumes of each of Laos’ officially recognized ethnic minority groups.  As this was the first time most of the invitees had ever visited Laos—the two diminutive delegates from Albania, dressed in diplomatic grey, seemed particularly enthralled—it was a great opportunity to showcase the country’s culture.

After dessert, the final performance was announced: a piece by “Michael.”  A pair of young Lao pop stars, one in a black suit, the other a long red gown, strode onto the stage, wireless microphones in hand, and belted out the opening lyrics, familiar to all in attendance:

There comes a time

When we heed a certain call

When the world must come together as one

A troupe of lithe young dancers in traditional dress soon emerged from the wings.  As I watched them wave the flag of the Lao People’s Democratic Republic in time to “We Are the World,” I wondered: was anyone aware of the flag’s meaning?  Two horizontal bars of red, symbolizing courage and heroism, sandwiching a bar of blue, for nationhood, and, in the center, a piercing white sphere: the light of communism.  Sitting in the basket of my motorbike was a faded original 1968 edition of revolutionary leader Phoumi Vongvichit’s Le Laos et la lutte victorieuse du peuple Lao contre le neo-colonialisme Americain, which I had plucked out of a pile of old magazines at a used bookshop and purchased for a few dollars that morning.  The editor’s note begins, “While American neo-colonialism around the world suffers defeats ever more stinging…”  Now, forty years later, the words of America’s most successful pop star filled the courtyard of the Prime Minister’s Office.

Back when I lived in Vientiane, I would have found this juxtaposition deeply unsettling.  It would likely have sent me into a deep funk.  Tonight, however, it seemed somehow natural.  After all, in death Michael Jackson had transcended his American roots to become part of the entire world’s heritage; Laos was claiming his legacy for itself. By hosting this important event, Laos had transformed from mere victim of cluster bombs into advocate for their eradication, showing that it, too, could be a player on the world stage.  As the guests filed out of the courtyard, past trees draped with twinkling blue Christmas lights, they took group photographs and embraced.  A feeling of pride and triumph was in the air.  Perhaps even Phoumi Vongvichit would have entertained the notion that the flag’s transition from his Marxist comrades’ wartime headquarters in the caves of Northern Laos to the Prime Minister’s just-finished courtyard was actually quite smooth. 

As I pulled out of the back gate, the anthem of global solidarity was being played on repeat, again and again, over the loudspeakers and out into the darkness beyond.

I ordered a Decaf Skim Iced Mocha Latté.  It was tasty, but I longed for my beloved Lao iced coffee.  Starbucks and its imitators were ubiquitous everywhere else in the world; did Vientiane really need them as well?

After bidding my friends goodbye, I walked over to the National Museum, just across the street from Swensen’s. I had seen the quirky, dusty exhibits—which included everything from dinosaur bones to communist machine guns—many times before.  Now I simply wanted to pay my respects to this grand old building, which, I had just learned, was also threatened by the wrecking ball.  Built in 1925 for use by the French Governor-General, the building had been employed by the Japanese during their brief occupation of Vientiane during World War II.  But it was also here that the Lao Issara, or Free Laos, government proclaimed the nation’s independence in October 1945.  After the revolution, it had served a number of Lao People’s Democratic Republic ministries before being converted into a museum. 

Now, the property—along with two other important colonial-era structures, the National Library and the Ministry of Information and Culture—had evidently been sold to a wealthy developer who planned to demolish the museum and build an office and retail complex in its place.  As for the contents of the museum, they would be relocated to a modern facility outside of town, thereby ensuring that no one would ever see them.  I paced around the stately grounds, overgrown with weeds, and contemplated the potential loss of another piece of Vientiane’s heritage.  I could understand the government’s weariness of calls from Westerners to preserve old French edifices; had they not done enough heritage protection in Luang Prabang under the relentless needling of UNESCO?  Nevertheless, these buildings form an integral part of Lao history, and it is hard to see what motivation there is for their destruction, other than short-term monetary gain by specific individuals.  It is always cheaper to knock down a building than to save it (although the experience of Luang Prabang shows that there is plenty of money to be made by retrofitting colonial structures). 

By the time this edition goes to print, I fear that the National Museum will have fallen victim to the inexorable drive to make Vientiane a modern metropolis: the dream, evidently shared by the Lao leadership and many of its citizens, of creating a normal city at last.  Tourism may be on the rise, but if this effort ever succeeds, I wonder if anyone will still want to visit.

“Ah, Pethsarath, good choice!” he said, a broad smile on his middle-aged face.

“Oh yes?”  I asked, examining the mystical drawings and pali script that surrounded the Prince’s likeness. “What’s so great about him?”

“He was a very holy man, sacred—very good luck for you!”

When I lived in Vientiane, images of Pethsarath and other pre-revolutionary celebrities had been common enough, but mostly inside homes.  They had been recommended to me as good-luck charms in hushed tones, if at all; now they were being churned out of a portable printer on the banks of the Mekong River.  A few hundred feet away stood the latest addition to Vientiane’s array of monuments, a towering statue of Chao Anouvong, the ruler of the Lan Xang Kingdom from 1805 until 1828.  Anouvong’s reign was no grand success: after launching an attack on the Siamese in 1826, he was captured during their fierce response, which resulted in the destruction of Vientiane and Anouvong’s death in captivity in Bangkok. 

Nevertheless, the current government in Laos had decided to resurrect Anouvong, completing the ten-ton likeness in just four months, in time for the 450th anniversary celebration.  Deputy Prime Minister Somsavat Lengsavath—whom I remember meeting back when he was merely foreign minister, in a chance encounter in the men’s room at the Lane Xang Hotel—had been put in charge of the festivities.  According to the Vientiane Times, at the recent unveiling ceremony, he had praised the former king’s “unwavering love for his country and how he devoted his life to keeping the Siamese at bay.  Even though the king was imprisoned and tortured, Mr. Somsavat said, he was undaunted in showing his love for his country and fought without surrender.”  The provocative placement of the statue on the banks of the Mekong, directly facing the Thai, Anouvong’s hand outstretched toward them, reinforced the message: we may have lost, but we have not forgotten.

During my visit, the government’s effort to strengthen Lao identity in the face of enduring pressures from the country’s neighbors—indeed, globalization at large—was palpable.  The leadership seemed to have jettisoned the revolutionary heroes who were the focus of so much lionization during my time Vientiane; it was reaching deeper into the recesses of Lao history to find suitable national icons to help unite the populace and legitimize the regime.  In a country where the median age is 19.3—the youngest in Asia—most people have no memory of the revolution.  In conversations with Lao diplomats and parents alike, I heard deep worries about these young people: what did they believe?  What were their aspirations?  What did they think it meant to be Lao?  Did they think of themselves as Lao at all?

The 450th anniversary celebration was as good a time as any to reign in the more ostentatious displays of Western behavior and remind people that there was much about Laos to value.  Vendors at commemoratory trade fairs were prohibited from selling provocative clothing like hot pants and spaghetti-strap blouses.  A piece in the state-runVientiane Mai Daily gently chided, “The intention of this article is not to offend anyone, but it’s important to realize that we have a celebration coming up.  Although Laos has been developing rapidly, we should not forget our fine traditions and culture and should show foreign visitors that we possess and love these valuable treasures.”  Reading this passage over a tartine and café au lait at Le Banneton, I could not help but think about the destruction of the National Museum—not to mention the other elements of Vientiane’s past that were destroyed when I lived in the city. Could the government really expect its people to respect such “valuable treasures” when it was in the process of eliminating so many of them?

In any case, such exhortations from the Party were likely to fall on deaf ears, and with good reason; in 2010, the opportunities for engagement with the outside world were simply too tempting to resist.  During my visit, Vientiane was also gearing up for the 35th anniversary of the founding of the Lao People’s Democratic Republic.  Above the entrance to nearly every downtown home, shop and office building flew not only the national flag but the blazing hammer-and-sickle as well.  On my way home from the riverfront, I stopped by a small shophouse where a group of women were busy cutting fabric and running it at top speed through sewing machines, assembling rough-hewn versions of the two flags.  While I was negotiating the price for a pair, an old colleague from the NTA drove up to the store and shouted hello.  We had not been in touch for more than ten years, but in short order it seemed like only a few hours had passed.  He invited me to join him that evening at Bar Martini, a new addition to Vientiane’s nightlife, where he danced salsa every week.  We are now friends on Facebook; I will likely never lose touch with him again.

Despite all of the transformation, much about Vientiane remains the same: the monks sweeping their temple grounds at dusk, the joys of a Beer Lao on the riverfront at sunset, the baguette vendors near the Morning Market at midnight, the refreshing openness and general goodwill.  It is still a wonderful place to live—a large village, now slightly larger—and a fascinating place to visit.

On my last evening, I received a stark reminder of how little some things had changed.  I was planning to meet an old Lao friend for a final cocktail, but he had to cancel at the last minute: there was a funeral to attend.  The day before, his friend’s seven-year-old son had suddenly died.  The boy had caught dengue fever, which the local neighborhood clinic had failed to diagnose.  He had slipped into a coma and passed away, just like that.  My friend lamented the family’s failure to bring the boy immediately to Thailand; local medical care simply did not suffice.  As I made alternative plans, I had to remind myself: this had happened in Vientiane, by far the wealthiest and most developed place in the country.  Most Lao live in the countryside, work in agriculture, and cannot imagine the wonders of the World Wide Web—or even, in many cases, clean drinking water.  Government spending on health care and education is woefully inadequate.  In the same manner as their pre-revolutionary predecessors, the current leadership has lavished attention on the capital city while giving scant attention to rural areas.  The country is said to be experiencing a robust annual growth rate of seven percent, but little of this seems to have trickled out into the provinces. 

The veneer of modernity that has been draped over Vientiane—traffic lights, grand government offices, newly-laid turf, elevators, wireless Internet access—cannot hide the basic problems that still plague the country.  During my visit, I was struck by how similar my conversations were to those I had enjoyed so many years before.  Discussions with government officials and entrepreneurs, NGO workers and teachers, old friends and new, all touched upon the same concerns explored in these pages.  Income inequality, government corruption, foreign influence, environmental destruction, youth disaffection, cultural dislocation—each is more acute today than it was when I lived in Vientiane.