It’s the rainy season. It’s hot, humid, and the road is a river of mud.

Word from Wisconsin this summer is that the land is dry, and the heat’s oppressive. My wife, an art educator, employs a rich vocabulary to depict the deteriorating condition of our yard (even though she is limited to shades of brown). I reassure her about the lawn, telling her that the grass has gone dormant. She insists, “It’s not dormant. It’s dead!”

I don’t know why she thinks I need to hear such bleak news. She’s shattering illusions that have sustained me here in Laos — first during the sweltering spring, and now through a scorching summer. Every evening for several months I have tossed and turned on my camp cot, hoping that sleep will bring relief from the extreme heat and humidity. My mosquito net — made of gauze-like material — is almost transparent, yet some nights I feel as if I’m smothering beneath the fabric.

I don’t want to hear about a heat wave baking Wisconsin. My misery wants no company. I want to fantasize about cool summer days and chilly nights. I want to imagine falling asleep in August beneath thick blankets, seeing my breath on frosty mornings, and warming my hands on piping hot mugs of coffee. I plod along here in Nakai, thinking that every week brings me closer to an evening cookout and bonfire on our farm.

Lao people don’t much talk about winter, spring, summer and fall. They simply divide the year into two halves: the “dry season” and the “rainy season.” Both seasons are warmer than a Wisconsin summer, but during the rainy season the clouds bring at least temporary relief from the sun, and with just an umbrella, I find the rain far more bearable than the humidity. On some hot days I forego the umbrella and prefer to get wet.

It is August as I write, and we are midway through the seasonal monsoon rains. It rains nearly every day, but never all day. Some days we get nothing more than a light drizzle. Other days the sky opens and a gray curtain of rain descends; the world beyond is obscured, not by a modest “cats and dogs” rain, but by something more akin to what my grandmother would call “pitch forks and hoe handles.”

For the most part, we are all happy to be in the rainy season. Farmers feel confident that a good harvest is now assured. With the rivers full, villagers can use their boats again to travel from home to market. Children are swimming in ponds that were dry holes just a few weeks ago (if the water buffalo haven’t turned the ponds into wallows first)! People of all ages are fishing the swollen streams. Villagers are building fences and doing other outdoor work in the pouring rain — tasks that they chose not to do during the dry season because the sun was too intense and the ground too hard.

The price we pay for relief from the heat and humidity is life with mud. The red dust that covered our roads and filled the air a few weeks ago has, with the advent of the rains, turned into thick oozing goo. Most days there is no firm place to walk; like old farmers strolling through a cow pasture, we’ve long since given up looking where we plant our feet. Cars and trucks churn up the roads; the once hard-packed clay is now the consistency of oatmeal. My legs tire more quickly now that I’m carrying the extra weight of mud on my feet. I have two pairs of boots; I used to switch to a dry pair when the first pair got wet. Now I have two pairs of wet boots, and no hope that either will dry completely until the rainy season ends.

I’m reminded of the Civil War veteran who wrote home describing the wet living conditions in his army camp near the southern city of Thermopolis. He explained to his relatives that the name Thermopolis was derived from two Greek words: “therm” for mud, and “opolis” meaning “more mud.”

Regardless of weather, our Response Team must maintain frequent communication with 15 resettlement villages on the Nakai plateau; we have pledged immediate assistance to anyone who discovers unexploded ordnance. We have promised to remove or destroy all dangerous items promptly. Mud is no excuse for leaving villagers to contend on their own with rockets, bombs or landmines.

All of our cars and trucks are four-wheel drive, but the current road conditions test even these vehicles’ limits. Many days we’ve sent them out onto soupy roads knowing that, ultimately, the vehicles will bog down and get stuck. Our drivers know better than to beg off work by saying, “But I’ll get stuck!” They know that the only comfort they’ll get from management is the terse advice: “Yes. And then you’ll have to get yourself unstuck, won’t you?”

I frequently ride along from village to village as part of my job. Although it’s a sad commentary on how little there is to do here for recreation, I confess that getting stuck in the mud can be entertaining. When you’re mired in mud on the narrow roads in this part of Laos, all traffic in front or behind is forced to stop as well. If you’re patient and sit long enough, a corps of reluctant volunteers will eventually reach critical mass, and you’ll have whatever help you need to get rolling again.

The first step toward freeing a vehicle involves having passengers and onlookers collect branches, sticks, and logs to place under the wheels in order to gain some traction. With enough volunteers, a corduroy road can be laid down providing a path to firmer ground. No one is willing to lean in and push a car that’s badly mired (at least not twice in a lifetime); the spinning wheels are sure to cover the volunteers from head to foot with mud. All of our vehicles are equipped with ropes, chains and woven straps; some even have winches. It’s easier to recruit volunteers to pull a car than to push one.

Last week when our vehicle got stuck, I enjoyed a truly therapeutic belly laugh that pumped up my endorphins for a full day. Bountavee, my driver, was frustrated that he couldn’t get our car’s tires to dig in and get a grip on the sticks that we had placed in front of the wheels; then, he had an inspiration. He dug around in the car’s trunk and emerged enthusiastically with the jack. He announced that he would jack up the car, and when the wheels were lifted out of the mud, I should pack rocks, sticks, branches, and logs under the tires.

Bountavee positioned the jack, and leaning against the car for support, started pumping the handle up and down. He pumped with all the enthusiasm of a politician shaking hands at the county fair. When he felt resistance, he pumped all the harder, thinking that he was lifting the car off the ground. In fact, with each stroke of the jack handle, Bountavee was driving the base plate of the jack deeper into the mud.

I enjoyed the sight too much to interrupt his work. It wasn’t until Bountavee reached the jack’s limit that he finally noticed the wheel hadn’t moved an inch, but the base plate was now a foot underground. Even funnier was his struggle to lift the plate out of the mud. There was Bountavee, doubled over as he pulled on the base plate with all his might; our entire planet was sucking on the plate from the other direction. I, too, was doubled over, but with laughter! Bountavee wasn’t very cheery that day, but he laughs about it now. In fact, for the entertainment of listeners, he even reenacts his look of surprise. Of course, the story only gets told if I bring it up.