Project Phongsali 2011: A man hand-delivers UXO that he wants to trade. And… to the wrong house. Not the kind of help we need.

The fellow who to hand-delivered this mortar lost all points for civic responsibility when he tried to trade it for beer.

Day Twenty-One

Every morning speakers hooked to the village public address system issue a community-wide wake up call. First, we’re gifted spirited strains of martial music. Once awake, invigorated and inspired, we hear an enthusiastic reading of the local news. I doubt that villagers ever kick off neighborly small-talk with the question, “Did you hear the news?” In Muang May, you’d have to be under water at 6 AM to miss the announcements.

For a couple of days details about our project led the morning announcements. The speaker didn’t identify our project, or me, by name but she told villagers that a “falang” (foreigner) was currently in town leading a team that intended to travel throughout the district destroying rockets, bombs, landmines and other troublesome ordnance. The announcer concluded by encouraging anyone knowing of UXO to contact our team.

Janet Bemo, the American woman I met a few days ago, has been living in Muang May for about a year, working on development projects sponsored by the Christian Reformed World Relief Committee, an American-based organization. Imagine her surprise when, the morning our project was announced, a man stood at her door, displayed an intimidating piece of weaponry, and asked Janet where she wanted him to put it. (Not a welcome sight any time of day but especially irksome if you haven’t yet had your morning coffee).

Janet made it clear to the man that he had the wrong house, the wrong falang, and the wrong idea if he thought he was going to leave his gift at her doorstep. She pointed out our camp, just down the road, and firmly suggested that he carry his contribution to public safety out of her yard and into ours.

Which he did. (Janet watched carefully). But… we weren’t in camp, having already left for work in the field.

Later, after hearing Janet’s story, we carefully searched our house, walkway, drive, yard and environs just in case the fellow placed the ordnance someplace convenient for him but hazardous to us. We found no ordnance, no message, no clue as to who he was, where he went or what he’d been carrying. (All Janet could tell us was that the devise “looked like a bomb”).

That evening, the man returned to our camp, again carrying ordnance in hand. He immediately dashed any notion we had of him as an altruistic, civic-minded villager. He opened with a request that we pay for his ordnance, or at least treat him to a couple bottles of beer.

Yai explained that no way, no how, never, under no circumstance do we pay for ordnance. No money. No booze. No cigarettes. No food. No t-shirt. Nothing. Nada. Nice try. The fellow looked disappointed (and thirsty) but handed over the item without complaint.

We’ll dispose of the device, an 82 mm mortar that still has both its firing charge and front fuse intact, by carrying it to a remote location and blasting it with a sizable block of TNT.