arm, until an old man approached, offering two plastic chairs in a secluded spot under a tree. Jon ordered two Lao beers and we settled in, enjoying a view of Thailand, thirty-five hundred feet away on the other side of the glistening Mekong. Music filtered from a window on the nearby street, children laughed at the river’s edge, and sparrows swarmed, welcoming the end of the day. The sunset was crimson red, created by a haze of smoke from cooking fires.
I was happy, swept into the moment with a cold beer and a new relationship. I’d met Jon eighteen months before, in Casablanca, Morocco, while on assignment for CNN, during a party at the US consulate’s residence. Two days later he unexpectedly burst into my life again.
At the time, I was scouting a location to shoot video of food markets. Local women in brightly colored robes with head scarves were perusing the outdoor stalls, shopping for their families’ dinner. But what most intrigued me were the homeless street dogs, who followed at a safe distance. They looked up, eager to make eye contact with any person who might provide a scrap of sustenance, but it was as if they were invisible. No one took notice of them.
I’d witnessed this same street dog problem in other countries and gotten into the habit of packing boxes of dog biscuits when I traveled internationally. I reached into my bag, crouched to the ground, and one by one the market dogs cautiously approached and gently took a biscuit from my hand.
I was so caught up in the moment that I hardly noticed the man standing behind me until he said in an Australian accent: “If you were my girlfriend, I’d charter a plane so you could take these dogs home with you.”
I turned and there was Jon, haloed by the sun, with a golden head of curls, freckled skin, and a contagious smile.
Now he and I were sitting together in Asia, contemplating the mighty Mekong, the source of life for billions of animals, sixty million of them human, and a silent witness to some of the world’s greatest crimes against humanity. From where I was sitting, it was easy to visualize the tens of thousands of people who’d swum across the river to Thailand in 1975, while fleeing the communist regime. As I imagined the terror of that crossing, I wondered if writing about their experiences could actually prevent future wars, as I’d hoped. The world’s knowledge of the Holocaust hadn’t put a halt to mass killings. Genocide had occurred in Bosnia from 1992 to 1995, and it was currently happening in Rwanda. As I watched a large tree being swept downstream by the current, I wondered what power I had, if any, to create change.
The next day, Tom picked us up at 9 AM to take us to the National Ethnic Cultural Park, twelve miles south of Vientiane. I’d expressed an interest in learning about the history of the country, and he’d assured me I’d find what I was looking for there. Since the communist government still controlled Laos, I didn’t expect to find what I was seeking — information on the Vietnam War and the mass exodus of refugees that followed. But I was eager to see what the government made public.
As we walked through the gates, it was apparent we’d entered a forgotten place. Kiosks were shuttered, footpaths were overgrown, and there were no signs of staff. Tom quickly apologized that it appeared closed and invited us to walk the grounds.
It was oppressively hot and the jungle was alive with the wing-snapping rattle of millions of cicadas. The noise was loud and yet simultaneously calming. I sauntered down a dark path that led to a moss-covered statue of an elephant. As I admired it, a bird landed on the elephant’s trunk. It was a bright green parakeet, with a red beak and matching neck ring.
“Hello,” I said, hoping he’d mimic. “Hello,” I repeated. He nodded and extended his wings, ruffling them with a shake. He nodded again, let out a screech, and flew down the path. I followed, pushing past a patch of hanging vines to find him bouncing on a palm frond. As soon as I approached, he screeched and flew farther down the trail, out of sight. Then Jon yelled from that direction.
“Jenny, don’t come down this path!”
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I proceeded cautiously until I reached a clearing. In the middle was a ten-foot-high statue of a smiling Buddha head surrounded by a circular dirt pathway. Jon was off to one side, standing in front of a six-foot-high bell-shaped cage with thick iron bars.
“Don’t look,” he warned.
The parakeet let out a screech and I looked up. He was on top of the cage, nodding as I walked closer. My eyes dropped.
A black Asiatic bear was imprisoned in a cage he’d physically outgrown. The cream-colored half-moon marking across his chest — a hallmark of Asiatic black bears — was broken in the center by a line of dark brown hair. He had a long snout and rounded ears that stood upright, each the size of a man’s hand. One arm dangled outside the five-inch space between the bars, while the whole paw on his other arm was stuffed into his mouth. His eyes and the fur below them were wet, and he was rocking on his feet. When he saw me, a muffled cry erupted from his throat and his free arm reached for me. I moved closer, inches from his reach, and looked into his eyes. He was sobbing, trying to catch his breath like a child after a long tantrum. His eyes held mine. In that moment, telepathically, he conveyed his suffering to me.
I looked around his feet for signs of food or excrement, proof he’d been eating, but saw neither. A plastic pail of stagnant green water was behind him, but I couldn’t tell if it was within reach. My eyes went to his again, and he lifted the arm that was outside the bars, turning it over for me to see the palm of his paw. There were five circular blisters, bubbled and red, on the pads, along with other spots of scar tissue. He cried out as I looked from the blisters back to him.
“You like bear?” Tom asked in his pidgin English.
“This is an unacceptable situation for any animal,” Jon answered.
“Bear happy. Nice bear,” Tom said, grinning.
“No. Bear not happy. Bad water,” I said. “Bear is sick,” I said, pointing to the blistered paw. “Who takes care of this bear?”
Tom’s smile vanished. “I find man,” he said, and walked away.
My eyes followed Tom, and it was only then that I saw the other four cages, all circling the Buddha, all imprisoning bears. I must have been so focused on the first bear that I shut out everything around me. Now it was as if someone had turned up the volume and all I heard were the sounds of despair. I turned in a circle, my heart racing, feeling anguished and desperate. The sun was unforgiving, burning. My knees buckled and I grabbed a handrail.
At that moment, Tom arrived with a man wearing a conical straw hat, a light brown long-sleeved shirt, and sarong pants. He was carrying a handmade wide-bottomed whisk broom. “This man is keeper of bears. He’s friend to bears,” Tom said.
I asked whether he spoke English, and Tom shook his head.
“Will you translate for me?” I asked.
Tom nodded.
“To keep bears in this small cage is not good. This water is bad water. Where is the food? And what is wrong with his paw?” I said, pointing to the blisters.
Tom interpreted the questions, and the two men launched into a discussion. The bear stopped crying and focused on their conversation, his eyes on them, his ears turned in their direction, one paw still in his mouth. I wondered if he understood their language. I couldn’t. I could
