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I'd become content with the squelching of my tattered shoes through the mud. This was, after all, monsoon season in Laos. So long as my left shoulder was suitably scarved and my tailor made Sinh was wrapped around my waist, I'd be presentable enough. Id been given a list of strictly enforced rules by my programme leader. Sue was completely unimpressed with my English Teaching experience. "It will be different" she promised. No music. No inappropriate games. No touching. No touching anything they touch. No touching the same item at the same time. And no eye contact outside of the classroom. People of Luang Prabang liked to say that the acronym Laos PDR stood for please don't rush. That was why I didn't panic on Monday morning when I showed up to a classroom of peach walls, wooden tables and empty wooden chairs. Floating into the thirty minutes late were five immaculate Novice monks. My new students' bald heads and matching orange robes almost distracted me from their age differences. The eldest, around eighteen, introduced himself first as "Novice Por, nice to meet you" he spoke eloquently with a confident smile. Novice Por had clearly introduced himself a lot to people like me. Joining him was Novice Vue, Novice Seth and one other, much younger than the rest, who was too shy to announce his name but very eager for paper. He was careful though not to pull it out of my hand. I suspect that the no touching women and objects-that-women-are-holding rule had been drilled into him during the first week. We learned about earthquakes and sandstorms, droughts and monsoons. We talked about the differences between a Lao yard and a British garden. Between an elephant and a rabbit. We talked about jobs; a painter and a farmer and a shop assistant. The anonymous young Novice's hand rose into the air. "What your job?" he stumbled. I was taken aback. Not only because the young Novice had been so bold as to ask a question, but because I had not considered that being a teacher was not a necessary qualification for teaching here. "I'm an English Teacher" I tell him. "Why do you become a teacher?" said the young Novice. "It is a way to travel and to meet people, like you. Why did you become a monk?" I asked. The Young Novice went quiet. Perhaps he didn't have the skills to answer in English or perhaps he didn't understand. Novice Por became a spokesperson for the group. "Our families send us to the temple. Some of us come from the villages many miles away. I miss my family a lot but I do this for them. If I am a monk, I can go to school." I felt a lump in my throat. If he is a monk, he can go to school. No music, no eye contact, no touching, life away from family, and complete emergence into the temple. That was the price of education. I gulped down the lump and moved on. Three weeks later on a Saturday morning, I kneeled at the corner of Wat Aham Temple just before sunrise for the daily alms giving ceremony. Very soon, I'd see a line of orange robes holding out baskets for local city folk to drop balls of sticky rice into. Contrary to the regulars that cooked from 4am every morning to feed their society, my basket was filled with two hundred rice crackers that I'd bought from the local convenience store. The monks and novices arrived to the silence of around thirty women with bowed heads. The tropical birds sang as the sun peeked its way above Wat Aham. One by one, my crackers left my basket into theirs. I avoided all eye contact, focusing on the exchange. "Thank you teacher" a voice at the end of the pack muttered under his breath. As the orange melted away, I turned to look at the back of line. The anonymous young Novice sprung away into the morning sun. "Your welcome" I said.