I was on assignment to the Kingdom of Laos attached to the US Embassy and working under the guise of a being an embassy civilian employee but being paid by the US Army. I was assigned to work with Project 404, a multi-service organization supporting the Laotian military effort and spent 13 months traversing the Kingdom from the southernmost sites around Pakse to the northernmost sites around Phongsali.
Don, my Air Force counterpart, and I were at Savannakhet, Laos, southeast of Vientiane during the Christmas 1973 period setting up a communications site. On Christmas Eve we drove to the American Community Association where we found 4 of the 10-plus Americans from the community. We celebrated Christmas as best we could. There were no gifts to exchange but beer was free, mix-ur-own were not. There was a small cassette player atop the homemade bamboo bar playing 'Feliz Navidad' (Jose Feliciano) and other traditional Christmas music over and over and over again and again.
Eventually, we all started singing along as the drinking progressed. I noticed a guy in the corner with a marker and a long roll of brown butcher paper making a Christmas sign but hadn't decided the message to put on it. I offered, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all". He decided that was too traditional. Another suggested something else. Everyone had his own suggestion but collectively settled on 'Merry Fucking Christmas to one and all'. So the banner was done. We all signed it then taped it to the wall behind the bar as everyone admired the great work of art and its creative message.
We were still drinking, singing and getting loud and boisterous when someone heard a knock on the door. The someone went to check the door then rushed back to us telling us to "quick, take the banner down! The married guy is here with his wife!" Two men rushed behind the bar and quickly pulled our masterpiece banner off the wall as another one was bringing the couple around introducing them to us all. The lady announced, "That's quite a sign you had up. Just got a quick glimpse of it, but really, guys, you didn't have to pull it down just because of me. I'm not offended." But the mood was killed. The loud boisterous singing stopped and conversation became polite, stilted. "Nothing like a lone gal to ruin a good thing," Don whispered, "Let's blow this joint."
The rest of the nite was a blur. It hits you particularly hard having to spend Christmas in a strange land and even an abundance of alcohol and being among a group of isolated Americans sharing the same misery does not sufficiently soften the pain of spending yet another Christmas away from loved ones. Christmas still has to be the worst possible time to be away from your loved ones.
Christmas was over, and we hustled to finish the job before New Year's. Working some long hours and enlisting the assistance of an air force radio operator working at the site, we completed the whole project in just four or five days. We had worked so hard and accomplished so much, Don and I took our radio operator helper downtown our last night there. There were two bars in town. We went to the first bar and were the only Americans there with a couple of Laotian men and some three girls serving drinks. The owner of the bar greeted us and bought us our first beers because "I want you come more here ."
After some more beers and during a period when the bar owner was greeting other Laotian customers, we got up and decided to go find some place to eat. She rushed to the door asking, "Why you go? You come back?" We lied to her that we would return after finding something to eat. She replied, Just one minute. I go with you!
We waited while she went back behind the bar and pulled some money from her cigar money box then joined us.
She guided us to a small corner soup shop barely large enough for four tables. She ordered some soup similar to the Vietnamese Pho and hard-boiled duck eggs for herself. Don, the radio operator and I ordered beefsteak with "America potatoes". Some twenty minutes later a young girl of some ten years old walked in from the sidewalk and gave us the beefsteak with fries served on thick and rough aluminum plates with oversize and course aluminum forks and knives. Having no idea if they were actually beef or water buffalo, where they were cooked and under what sanitary conditions, we hesitated for a moment but hunger overtook the sanitary issue.
We went back to our lady friend's bar and ordered some more beers. She sat down with us and started making small talk telling us she was from Burma and made enough money in the opium business to move to Savannakhet and buy her bar and the sidewalk cafe which she took us to. She then began questioning us about where we come from, how long we would stay in Savannakhet and questions which alerted my caution meter. We all replied with the 'non-answers' we had been trained to provide.
Don had not done much talking. "I don't like you," Don said to the bar owner. There was a long, awkward pause before he continued. "You remind me of my ex-wife. She's not Asian, but you have similar qualities, and I just don't like you." I could tell Don had reached his limit and was ready to leave. I'd spend enough time drinking with Don and knew he would always start being direct and unpleasant upon reaching his limit.
Without another word the bar owner excused herself. We saw her go behind the bar and grab the cigar money box used as the cash register. Out of nowhere, she let out a loud shriek. She confronted the bartender behind the bar and started yelling at her viciously and brutally. The bartender lady ran out of the bar as the owner began yelling at the other ladies working there.
We asked for the bill so we could leave before we got involved in some trouble, but all the ladies were too involved in a shouting match. We each contributed at least double what the bill should have been and tried to give it to the owner lady. She took it sternly telling us, "You no go. Sit down. Just one minute." We did not want to make things worse so did as told. She came over with more beer for us and sat down crying. "That girl she steal my money," she said. "We go restaurant and she take my money. I count before I go. I give her job, she stay my house and now I lose too much money."
My suspicious nature was working at warp speed. "Look," I told her. "I am sorry, but we have to go. Maybe we come back another time." As we were walking back to our villa, the radio operator said, "Poor lady. I kind of feel guilty for her losing that money."
"It's a scam," I suggested. "She probably uses that same ruse on every new American who wanders into her bar hoping the American will feel sorry for her and make up whatever money she supposedly lost."
I made several trips back to Savannakhet over the next few months. I never again visited her bar or cafe.
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