When I first came to Laos in mid-March, I simply expected to spend six peaceful months teaching English as a volunteer. As time goes by, I realized the true meaning of my stay is trying to understand Laotian people and their culture.

Chang Tianle takes a picture with her students at the Laotian Youth Union's Child-Youth Development Centre of Vientiane Province.

On the afternoon of March 11, my second day in Laos, I took a pick-up truck with a fellow volunteer who teaches computer skills and travelled for two hours before reaching the Laos Youth Union's Child-Youth Development Centre of Vientiane Province, 75 kilometres north of the capital city of Vientiane. With donations from Japan and Sweden, the Laotian Youth Union established a school which aims to provide various courses for young people to supplement their formal school education.

Back in March, English was the only course available in the school.

Eager to learn

Although still largely unknown to the outside world, Laos has seen an increasing foreign influence on people's lives. The number of European and American visitors each year has jumped from 31,000 in 1995 to around 120,000 now, generating some US$100 million in revenues - one of the biggest sources of foreign exchange for the country, according to reports from the London-based Financial Times.

Meanwhile, a large number of international organizations create well-paid jobs for English-speaking Laotian nationals.

So it's not hard to understand why young people are eager to learn English.

But the way they did so was inefficient and awkward.

In the centre, local teachers use a hand-written textbook full of mistakes to teach beginners, who spend most of the time burying their heads, copying incorrect examples and lengthy grammar rules in Laotian.

Even worse, they never use cassettes, CDs or videos. Nor do they learn Western phonetic symbols, which means students have to rely on their teachers and Laotian phonograms to learn pronunciation. If the teacher pronounces the words improperly, so do the students.

When I first arrived, I was stunned to find that I could hardly communicate with the Laotian English teachers. Their strong local accent and implication of Laotian grammar made English a new language to me. They also had a hard time understanding me.

So did my students.

First class

Two hours after I reached the school, I found myself standing in front of about 20 tanned teenagers - my first group of students. They all stared at me with fascination and excitement. But when I started to speak, curiosity was replaced by confusion - despite the low speed and simple vocabulary I used, they didn't understand a single word I said!

I repeated what I had said several times, but it didn't work. Then I used the whiteboard. Reading word by word, in a strong Laotian accent, the students burst into a long sigh, showing understanding and relief.

The simple building serves as the classroom for the local Laotians.

The first lesson I learned from my students is that teaching English as a non-native speaker is a matter of building trust and bonds.

Soon after the class, I sensed distrust among them. "We can understand our Laotian teacher, why can't we understand you? Do you really speak good English?" I could read from their attitude.

We are the first foreigners working here, and probably the first foreigners my students ever speak and listen to. Without access to standard English, their bewilderment was understandable.

Pretty confident that my Shanghai accent is much closer to standard English than that of my Laotian colleagues, I showed the class a few video clips of my former colleague from the UK on my computer. They were amazed and convinced. Once trust was established, everything went on the right track.

The job is rewarding. Students are respectful and make rapid progress. Some of the top students soon got used to my accent and often translate it to their fellow classmates who don't quite follow me. In two weeks, I was able to teach them without a local assistant.

Mutual understanding

Frustration still remains. What I've been striving to achieve but never succeeded is to get all the students on time for class. Take my evening class for example. I would be quite flattered if the classroom is half filled by 6 pm, the starting time. They usually arrive from 6 to 6:40. Once a student knocked at the door five minutes before the class was over, saying without the least guilt: "May I come in?"

"Why are you always late?" bearing this for a week, I shot the question to them one day.

"Teacher, we're busy," replied Iung, one of my favorite students.

"Busy with what?"

"I feed chickens," he answered.

"I help my father on the farm," another voice piped up.

"I prepare dinner for my family because they work in the fields," said another student.

"What?" I was in total bewilderment. Before that, I once asked them to introduce their families, including their parents' occupation. Most of their parents were policemen, government officials, restaurateur, vendors or teachers. How come their children were part-time farmers?

They were not lying.

In Laos, a city dweller's average monthly salary is about US$20. My colleagues are paid from US$15 to US$20. That's far from enough in a place where food, daily necessities, home appliances are no cheaper than those in Shanghai. So almost everybody has to make extra income.

Students of different ages attend Chang's English course.

Later I learned that almost all of my students' families own a piece of land to grow crops. Meanwhile they often breed chickens, buffaloes, ducks or pigs. Some of them even get up as early as 5 am to attend the farm or feed livestock before they go to school or work.

Born and raised in Shanghai, I have never been engaged in farm work, except for a relaxing week of agricultural training back in high school. But I can imagine how hard the work would be in Laos, where little modern machinery and technology are involved in the field work. Not to mention the all-summer climate.

How can I blame them for coming late when they rush to my class directly from the tedious work in the field? How can I keep those young faces tanned and weathered by the Laotian sun out of class?

"Try to arrive on time, please," I softened my tone and never mentioned it again.

According to the Laos government's report, its per capita gross domestic product reached US$362 between 2001 and 2002. However, many of the 5.3 million Laotians live on less than US$2 a day.

Here in Vientiane Province, which is one of the richest regions in the country, my students apparently have a much better life than the average Laotian. They live in nicely-built brick houses with easy access to main roads, instead of straw cottages in mountains. They go to school by motorcycles or mopeds, instead of buffalo or elephants. They are dressed neatly, some are fashionable. And they can afford a monthly fee of US$2 to attend my class, though the money can't even buy an hour's English training in Shanghai. But some of them still can't afford a US$2 text-book or a more expensive dictionary.

The textbook we use is a newly introduced American textbook which aimed at European students. It contains large amount of Western lifestyle and culture, which my students have almost no idea. I have to spend a lot of time in class explaining Internet-shopping, arts festival, or the gym. They are the most attentive when I talk about the outside world.

Once we had a unit about how to order in a restaurant. Most of the examples in the textbook were about Western food, which they had never seen before. To make it easier for them to understand, I spent the whole weekend in Vientiane eating as much Western food as I could.

The next week, I showed them the pictures which I took with digital camera: spaghetti, pasta salad, lasagna, sandwiches, hamburgers, pizza, cheesecake, lattes as well as a complete menu of a French restaurant.

Becoming an idol

I have to say, that was also one of my happiest weekends in Laos.

I guess I'm more than a language teacher. I also instruct their studies, help them figure out how to learn English and other subjects. Sometimes I teach them geography, computers, biology, arts, music and even politics.

Then comes enormous pressure. I soon sense that students not only like me, they worship me. Some take notes of whatever I say. Some ask me for advice on various issues and take my suggestions as obligation. Some girls copy my hair-style. Everything I do is considered to be cool and correct.

I've learned to be very careful about what I say and do - I can't afford a minor mistake.

Actually my every quirk or habit has been laid bare. My fellow volunteer and I were assigned to rooms with nothing but beds and desks. Running water and toilets are outside the dormitory. We do most of the washing in public: brushing our teeth, washing faces, doing laundry.

We are closely watched, talked about and observed. Never in my life had I been watched, sometimes stared at so closely. It was intimidating as we had no idea what they think of us. So I presumed it all went in a friendly way and only out of curiosity.

As my volunteer stint is coming to an end, I feel more urgency to teach them as much as I can. I don't know if there will be other foreign volunteers coming to this school and teaching these students after we leave in mid-September. My Laotian colleagues are very nice and caring teachers, but I suppose these children deserve better pronunciation at least.

Thanks to the six-month placement in rural Laos, my eyes and mind have been opened to a world different from my own. It's still too early to say what impact it has on my life, but there is one thing for sure - I have gained more from the experience than I imparted. My Laotian students and friends have enriched my life with their understanding, generosity and kindness. A strong and lasting bond has forged between us, which I'll treasure in the corner of my heart for ever.

Just like a song I once taught them goes, "If I never see you again, you'll stay on my mind."

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