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Tough teaching times made this policewoman rethink her life
By Tan Weiyun |
June 20, 2009, Saturday
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Print Edition
Print Edition
GU Jinhui, a 27-year-old officer in the Fengxian Police Station has had an experience that changed her. "I knew life there would be hard, but I didn't expect it would be that hard," she says. Last year Gu worked as a volunteer teacher in one of the most remote, half-hidden mountainous areas in Laos.
Now she is back. Sitting again in her spacious office, the police officer says the journey one year ago shattered her old life philosophy and rebuilt her faith in life.
Chosen from 200 volunteers, in February last year, Gu packed her luggage, bade farewell to her family during the Chinese Spring Festival and boarded a plane to Vientiane, where she was assigned to teach computer lessons to the children there.
The moment she got off the plane, the Southeast Asian country's scorching weather blasted the Chinese girl.
For a start there were no "four seasons" -- just the monsoon and the dry season. When Gu arrived it was Laos' dry season, which coarsened her skin and irritated it for a long time. "The Mekong River was dried to the riverbed. My students joked that they could easily walk across the river to Thailand on the other side," she says.
But the sweltering weather was just a small problem. A bigger challenge was the "weird" local food. Laotians love to eat raw food -- from beans to eggplants and mint -- with their hands.
"They prefer sour flavors. Almost each dish and even the rice is soaked in lemon juice," she says. There was definitely not the fresh vegetable salads you might expect. Because of the barren land, vegetables grown there are small and stiff. Gu says she almost vomited the first time she ate.
The staple food in Vientiane is glutinous rice, which is usually served in a small basket. "They eat with their hands. Local people believe that the tighter you hold the rice, the better it tastes."
Fish is a favorite food for this Fengxian native, but the Laotian fish is "a little stinky," she says. The fish, netted from the Mekong River, is grilled on the stove and strung with a straw. "It looks fully cooked, but is completely raw inside and emits a disgusting smell. It seems they don't know how to cook," she says.
Gu eventually cooked for herself with bits and pieces she had brought from China -- a pan and several small bottles of seasonings. What she was best at was "fish braised with brown sauce," a traditional Shanghai delicacy, which earned her title "the master chef" from local students and teachers.
"I often invited them to my dorm and cooked for them. They had never eaten this kind of fish before. They loved it very much," Gu says proudly.
Her dorm was a small shabby, unfurnished room with nothing but two beds. Gu and another Chinese teacher shared one room. In front of her dorm was the two-story, modest-looking local government building.
The Chinese brought everything they could bring -- a washbasin, slippers, an electric rice cooker, chopsticks, bowls, pan, biscuits, instant noodles, seasonings, water, medicine and mosquito coils. Blackouts and disruptions to the water supply are a "daily routine."
They had no television, Internet access or newspapers. Out of the window was a frighteningly endless forest and looming mountains beyond. They had to walk through a small wood every night just to have a shower in a small cabin.
Gu's job was to teach computer lessons at the Vientiane Youth Center. She rented a bike, which became her major transport. It took her about two and a half hours to get from the dorm to the school and half an hour to the food market.
Her class ended at 8:30pm each night and when she got back to the dorm, it was almost midnight. "What moved me deeply was that the boys from my class escorted me home every night," Gu says. "They didn't say anything on the road, just followed me, saw me open my door and then went back home."
The students in her class were aged from 12 to 37 and none of them had studied on a computer before. Without teaching materials, Gu compiled her own textbook and exercises. The blackboard was always crowded with the IT terms she wrote, because it was difficult to communicate with the students in English.
"My students brought a chair into the classroom to let me have a rest," she says. "They were always thoughtful, though a little timid."
"Materially poor, but spiritually rich" -- that is how Gu described her beautiful students. When her job was finished four months later and she had to be transferred to another school 70 kilometers away, the students huddled around the Chinese teacher, crying and begging her not to go.
They collected their pocket money, 140 Laos KIP (76 US cents) to buy a live baby lamb as a farewell gift for Gu. "It was a big sum of money for the students. It was all they could do," she says.
Life was hard there, but there were also happy moments. Each time Gu went to the Laos bank to receive the money her family sent to her, she "felt like a millionaire" because of the exchange rate. "I knew how great it felt when I carried home two large bags full of money. Cool!"
During the seven months in Laos, Gu won the approval of the local government and she was also highly praised by Sisavath Keobounphanh, president of the Laos Front for National Construction, for her excellent work.
"I know that what I've done is very little. I just hope the children I taught can grow up healthy and happy and become good people," Gu says. "I will remember those lovely little faces forever."
Now she is back. Sitting again in her spacious office, the police officer says the journey one year ago shattered her old life philosophy and rebuilt her faith in life.
Chosen from 200 volunteers, in February last year, Gu packed her luggage, bade farewell to her family during the Chinese Spring Festival and boarded a plane to Vientiane, where she was assigned to teach computer lessons to the children there.
The moment she got off the plane, the Southeast Asian country's scorching weather blasted the Chinese girl.
For a start there were no "four seasons" -- just the monsoon and the dry season. When Gu arrived it was Laos' dry season, which coarsened her skin and irritated it for a long time. "The Mekong River was dried to the riverbed. My students joked that they could easily walk across the river to Thailand on the other side," she says.
But the sweltering weather was just a small problem. A bigger challenge was the "weird" local food. Laotians love to eat raw food -- from beans to eggplants and mint -- with their hands.
"They prefer sour flavors. Almost each dish and even the rice is soaked in lemon juice," she says. There was definitely not the fresh vegetable salads you might expect. Because of the barren land, vegetables grown there are small and stiff. Gu says she almost vomited the first time she ate.
The staple food in Vientiane is glutinous rice, which is usually served in a small basket. "They eat with their hands. Local people believe that the tighter you hold the rice, the better it tastes."
Fish is a favorite food for this Fengxian native, but the Laotian fish is "a little stinky," she says. The fish, netted from the Mekong River, is grilled on the stove and strung with a straw. "It looks fully cooked, but is completely raw inside and emits a disgusting smell. It seems they don't know how to cook," she says.
Gu eventually cooked for herself with bits and pieces she had brought from China -- a pan and several small bottles of seasonings. What she was best at was "fish braised with brown sauce," a traditional Shanghai delicacy, which earned her title "the master chef" from local students and teachers.
"I often invited them to my dorm and cooked for them. They had never eaten this kind of fish before. They loved it very much," Gu says proudly.
Her dorm was a small shabby, unfurnished room with nothing but two beds. Gu and another Chinese teacher shared one room. In front of her dorm was the two-story, modest-looking local government building.
The Chinese brought everything they could bring -- a washbasin, slippers, an electric rice cooker, chopsticks, bowls, pan, biscuits, instant noodles, seasonings, water, medicine and mosquito coils. Blackouts and disruptions to the water supply are a "daily routine."
They had no television, Internet access or newspapers. Out of the window was a frighteningly endless forest and looming mountains beyond. They had to walk through a small wood every night just to have a shower in a small cabin.
Gu's job was to teach computer lessons at the Vientiane Youth Center. She rented a bike, which became her major transport. It took her about two and a half hours to get from the dorm to the school and half an hour to the food market.
Her class ended at 8:30pm each night and when she got back to the dorm, it was almost midnight. "What moved me deeply was that the boys from my class escorted me home every night," Gu says. "They didn't say anything on the road, just followed me, saw me open my door and then went back home."
The students in her class were aged from 12 to 37 and none of them had studied on a computer before. Without teaching materials, Gu compiled her own textbook and exercises. The blackboard was always crowded with the IT terms she wrote, because it was difficult to communicate with the students in English.
"My students brought a chair into the classroom to let me have a rest," she says. "They were always thoughtful, though a little timid."
"Materially poor, but spiritually rich" -- that is how Gu described her beautiful students. When her job was finished four months later and she had to be transferred to another school 70 kilometers away, the students huddled around the Chinese teacher, crying and begging her not to go.
They collected their pocket money, 140 Laos KIP (76 US cents) to buy a live baby lamb as a farewell gift for Gu. "It was a big sum of money for the students. It was all they could do," she says.
Life was hard there, but there were also happy moments. Each time Gu went to the Laos bank to receive the money her family sent to her, she "felt like a millionaire" because of the exchange rate. "I knew how great it felt when I carried home two large bags full of money. Cool!"
During the seven months in Laos, Gu won the approval of the local government and she was also highly praised by Sisavath Keobounphanh, president of the Laos Front for National Construction, for her excellent work.
"I know that what I've done is very little. I just hope the children I taught can grow up healthy and happy and become good people," Gu says. "I will remember those lovely little faces forever."
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