This Season Of Leaving

Laos is beautiful this time of year. During these three months it’s easy to forget how oppressive I find the heat during the rest of the year. But it was deliciously cool this morning as I walked through the streets of downtown. The Mekong glowed in the early light. Tuk tuk drivers shrugged and smiled as I declined their offers. I thought—as I’ve thought many times since we made the decision to move—that there are many things I will miss about this country.

I know this move is a good decision for us. Mike will be taking on a Country Director role that’s a good step for him professionally. The climate, while still warm, will place less strain on my body. We will be a hop, skip, and a jump from our Australian friends and family (globally speaking). And Mike and I are suited to small-city island living. We like ten-minute commutes and quiet evenings with each other and friends. We don’t generally pine for theaters and department stores and the gazillions of choices that developed-world living presents.

I know all of this. And, yet…

This season of leaving is still very difficult.

I hope, I believe, that we’re stepping out towards something good. But to get there we have to leave something good, too. And the outlines of what we’re stepping towards are still relatively hazy at this point. It’s what we’re leaving that we’re seeing, touching, and tasting every waking minute.

There is so much to like about Laos. The majesty of its rivers and mountains. The sheen of silk. The taste of sticky rice, lemongrass, and tamarind. The pervasive, gentle, courtesy, of its culture. The way both men and women attend to children…

Our staff love our children. The first thing our maebaan, Pok, said to me when we told her we were leaving was, “Oh, Alec! Koi kit howt lai lai” [Oh, Alec. I will miss him so much.]

“I know,” I told her in Lao. “Alex will miss you too.”

And he will. Both our children ask for our maebaan, our driver, and our night guard during the weekends. They can’t understand why their favorite play buddies just don’t show up two days a week. Our maebaan and our driver are married, and sometimes they take the kids to their house for the day. Their seven-year-old son, Sing, is Dominic’s favorite little friend. And it raises all sorts of complicated maternal emotions in me to admit this, but sometimes Alex prefers Pok’s arms to mine.

I’ve moved many times before (although as a serial expatriate, it’s debatable how well I do farewells… I think this is one area where practice most decidedly does not make perfect). This is the first time, however, I’ve faced the prospect of untangling my young children from relationships that are important to them. Alex (who will sometimes answer me with Lao words when I speak to him in English at this stage) is going to get a rude shock without his adoring posse to carry him around all the time, And somehow we’re going to have to explain to Dominic that our staff aren’t coming with us, and neither is his dog, Zulu.

I started this process yesterday, as we played with the blow-up beach ball globe that we have.

“Where do we live?” I asked Dominic.

“Yes,” I said, when he pointed to Laos. “But we’re not always going to live here. In a couple of weeks we’ll go visit Nana and Papa’s home in Australia. Here. Then we’re going to move to our next home, on an island. Here.”

I pointed to Vanuatu and Dominic’s eyes narrowed.

“You like Nana and Papa’s home, right?” I said, dangling the promise of a visit to the land of Nana, Papa, and the green mower like a carrot in front of his three-year-old nose.

He didn’t take the bait.

“Yes,” he said. “But most I like Laos home.”

And then he ran off to play with Zulu.

It’s going to be a hard goodbye.