I’m in a rural village 9,000 miles from home, accessible only by muddy, unsealed roads. The electricity is sporadic and there is one phone for every hundred people. Yet, I feel connected.

In this village, I feel connected to the PoP movement—the 40,000 passionate voices that have enabled a $25 bank deposit to grow into over 160,000 instruction hours delivered to Lao children by the end of the this year.

I feel connected to our all-female in-country staff members, who are passionately committed to empowering their community and themselves in the process.

I feel connected to the village elders and teachers I am sitting with, who are extending their hands in dedicated partnership to better the lives of their children.

School is out for the summer, but the PoP Laos team is hard at work. We’re finalizing our build plans for four new schools, laying out our 2011 strategy, and constantly scouting for new villages to partner with.

We’re building out our staff, which started with one committed Lao volunteer, to evaluate our schools and deliver our supplemental programming. This growing team of women is learning new skills and gaining the confidence to become powerful ambassadors of change in their country.

We are here, surveying this village, as part of the effort to track and quantify our impact on-the-ground, so that we hold ourselves accountable to our stated mission. This is one of many ways PoP is incorporating leading business practices into our operations to ensure we grow into a world-class organization.

And like a business, we have our shareholders. They are each of you, the Global Generation, connected by the dividends of our investment – the profound social good that we are creating together.

One of my favorite references when considering the PoP approach to development is a simple fact: The United States wasn’t created through NGO support.

What does this imply? It acknowledges that it takes self-initiated action to create a profound change in one’s quality of life. Giving single-sided handouts to poor populations only perpetuates a cycle of poverty and neediness. There are situations (i.e. natural disasters, refugee situations, emergency relief, etc.) where true aid is needed, but this is not the sphere Pencils of Promise plays within.

We ask local populations not to put a hand up, but to put a hand out that we can meet halfway.

Our model affirms this approach by requiring that:

1. Every single on-the-ground PoP Coordinator is a young woman of the local population.

2. The Education Ministry must agree to assign a local teacher once a school is completed.

3. We only work with local building companies using locally-produced but sustainable materials.

4. Each village must make up at least 10% of school funding. Since they rarely have this in cash, they make this up in raw materials and physical labor. The community itself ends up building and then maintaining their own school.

5. We coordinate, oversee and train key individuals at each step of the process from our staff to the builders, community and teachers. We want to help those we support to help themselves.

This entire process starts with a village visit to create a community profile. Sitting at the table is usually the village chief, elders, teachers, Education Ministry officials, local builders, our local coordinators and myself or Country Director Leslie Engle.

One of the first questions we ask is what they want most for their community. We won’t be giving it to them; we’ll be helping them to create it for themselves.

Photo credit: Bryce Eriksen

Filmmaker Philip Buiser of Two Penguins Productions spent two weeks in Laos documenting the opening of PoP schools and profiling some remarkable people in Lao culture.

And finally:

5. Because 98% of the world population will never see this woman drag fallen tree trunks down a mountainside and burn down her rice fields so that she could replant.  I saw it.  And it changed my life.  And I was wearing a conical rice hat through the entire thing, which, if you know me, is both perfect and hilarious.

4. Because the kid I almost drowned in the river forgave me as soon as he was conscious.

3. Because baw pen nyang trumps hakuna matata any day of the week.

2. Because what we call poverty isn’t always poverty, and what we call wealth isn’t always wealth.

1. Because Laos made me feel like a very small part of a very big world, which is what all of us need to feel every once in a while.  I needed it very desperately.  And I will forever be grateful.

Honorable mention:  because of Daak Fai, Ai B, Ai Nim, Ai Sengtong and Noy.  Miss you guys tons.

The countdown continues:

10. Monster.  Because she’s so adorable.

Photo by Bryce Eriksen

9. Jimmy.  Because he cleaned his hands with his own spit so he wouldn’t get my camera dirty when he played with it on the dirt floor.

Photo by Leslie Engle

8. Peter.  Because he spent two hours straight making faces at himself into my video camera, and I recorded every second of it.  And because his name is actually Peter.  Not like Jimmy, who is only named Jimmy because Bryce called him Jimmy once, or like Monster, who is only named Monster because she’s a cute little Monster.

Special note:  Peter put the bag on without any prompting from us, and we got it off of him in plenty of time, we promise.

7. Because any time I had my video camera out, fifty little kids crowded around me to see what I was seeing.

6. Because I had the Fantastic Mr. Fox on my computer and the entire village of Phayong made me feel like a hero for it.

Check back soon for the Top 5.

Filmmaker Philip Buiser of Two Penguins Productions spent two weeks in Laos documenting the opening of PoP schools and profiling some remarkable people in Lao culture.

I left Laos a little more than a week ago, and I’m going through serious withdrawal.  Here’s why:

15. Because once you’ve been in a motorbike accident, you sort of feel like you can do anything.

14. Because if said motorbike accident doesn’t kill you, a spontaneous parade of elephants might.

13. Because I went swimming in my underwear in questionable water more than once and lived to tell about it.

12. Because, since elders attached 32 spirit guardians to my wrists at every Baasii ceremony, I am now the proud owner of 128 spirit guardians, which sort of makes me invincible.

11. Because of this woman.

Check back soon for the Top 10.

So today village elders tied me up and got me drunk, then sent me off to shoot the monks, until I discovered that the monks were, in fact, shooting me. Oh, and I crashed my motorbike.

The awesome part about all of this is that I’m not even kidding.

Thanks to the underground marketing campaign of a pair of friends (I owe you, Wilsher/Johnson), I have been granted the extreme privilege of shooting documentary materials for Pencils of Promise in Laos as they get set to turn over control of several PoP-established preschools to the Laos Ministry of Education. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t accept the privilege for selfish reasons—Los Angeles and the film industry were wearing on me, and I was looking forward to a recentering of perspective or, at the very least, to avoiding traffic on the 405.

On my first day in Laos, the Lao offered me something better—a total renewal of equilibrium and impenetrable spiritual armor. The Lao have this incredible ceremony during which, when you’re about to embark on a new journey or project, the village elders call your wandering guardian spirits back to you to restore your balance and ensure your protection. My first day in Laos coincided with the last day of Lao New Year, so everyone in the country was embarking on a new journey right along with me (Go Team!). The elders symbolically fasten your wandering guardians to your wrists with white or orange string—in my case, white—chanting blessings and well-wishings and “may you have beautiful children” sorts of things.

They smile a lot as they do it (and generally), and afterwards, they feed you things that you haven’t necessarily seen before, give you five shots of rice whiskey and three glasses of their native beer (actual numbers may vary, depending on the voracity of your elders and your own will to decline) and send you on your exceedingly merry and newly protected way, unsteady video camera in tow.

My rather glib description of the ceremony does not nearly do it justice. Nor does it speak to its strength and effectiveness—after my motorbike accident later in the day, I’m a staunch believer. But we’ll get to that.

First, to the New Year’s parade, where teenaged monks in seriously beautiful orange vestments march in succession with an endless line of young adults and children in traditional national costume, getting doused with bucketsful of water along the way by the throngs of people watching from the sidelines. It’s a surprisingly tourist-friendly affair—I was permitted, along with the rest of the falang (Lao slang for white guys—first time I’ve been designated as such, ever), to walk as a member of the parade, running in and out of the marching lines with my camera sometimes inches from accommodating Lao faces.

It was during the parade that I saw what I thought was a beer and whiskey-induced hallucination, but upon reviewing the tape after the alcohol had worn off (several, several hours later, if you catch my drift), there he was, in all his conundrum-like glory—a young monk holding a shiny silver video camera, shooting me as I was shooting him.

It was at that point in the parade that I decided I should be drinking water for the rest of the day.

Now, to the part where the spirit guides save my butt.

We were set to cap off the day with a Lao New Year dinner at what amounts to a Lao mansion overlooking the Mekong River. The last conversation team PoP had before jumping on our respective motorbikes was whether we should wear jeans or shorts for the evening. Shorts are the modus operandi around here, but it was New Year, so we made a group decision to formalize ourselves with long denim.

Score one for the spirit guardians.

Through another collective decision made earlier in the day, I had decided to leave my camera equipment at a guesthouse in town after the parade so that I wouldn’t have to deal with it until later. We were on our way to pick it up when the motorbike crashed. Otherwise I would have had it with me, resulting in thousands of dollars in busted camera equipment and a definite end to my filmmaking duties in Laos.

Score another one for the spirit guardians.

So clad in jeans and sans expensive electronics, I jumped on the back of Bryce’s motorbike and we took off to meet the others for dinner. About five minutes into the trip, we blew our rear tire, hit a patch of water and went down, sliding on our right sides for 6 to 10 feet before skidding to a halt.

Score one for the bad guys.

But this is where I was most thankful for the white strings tied around my wrists. I have friends that ride motorcycles in Los Angeles. They wear helmets, jeans, leather jackets, boots and protective gloves, even in the dead of summer, because if you go down on a motorcycle, you’re getting torn up big.

Bryce was wearing flip flops. Both of us were wearing short sleeves. Neither of us were wearing gloves or a helmet. They just don’t do that in Laos.

Yet somehow, I walked away with some scuffed-up jeans, a raspberry on my knee, a negligible carpet burn up to my right hip and a right palm that, although embedded with asphalt, wasn’t even bleeding. Bryce had a pair of nasty cuts on his big toe and a raspberry on his knee as well. Otherwise, we were fine.

And the spirit guardians win.

Ten minutes later it began to rain—the first rain of the New Year, a big, deep, cleansing rain that killed the electricity in the entire village and kept us pinned to the guesthouse where I had left my camera, waiting for a van to take us the rest of the way to dinner.

Mi tao, a name that literally means old woman (several woman share the name in every village), sat near the door in the guesthouse lobby, eating her dinner alone by candlelight, watching the downpour. The wind howling through the banana trees, the pebble-sized hail falling from the sky, the two fallen falang, bloody, shaken and miserable in the corner—she stared out over all of it with a look on her face that said “I have seen this—all of this—before.”

It was a look of such sincere nonchalance, such peace without judgment, a look that made me wonder what we in the western world have been doing wrong for so long.

It was a look that said, “Welcome to Laos.”

I’ve been in Laos for just over a week now, with a couple more ahead. It’s amazing the transformation one can undergo in such a short time – and the fun is just beginning.

My trip here is full of purpose. I’ve worked tirelessly with PoP over the last year and I wanted to see what I was working for, meet the Lao people and embrace the joy that these children bring with them. Well, now the blinders are off.

Education. It’s what PoP is all about, and I think it’s important to remember that is about more the simply building schools. I have a marketing background, so of course I have been saying that for over a year.

Now, I am breathing it.

If you go back in time, before Shakespeare and Olde English, you can trace the history of the word “educate” to the Latin educatus, a past participle of educare, which means “to bring up, rear.” That word is actually a derivative of the original educere, which means “bring out or lead forth.”

I think we’re onto something.

My formal education began twenty six years ago, when my parents enrolled me in pre-school. They saw the value of education back then, and for that I owe them everything. But formal education is just the tip of the iceberg , and my passion for learning still grows  today. With each new experience, through every uncomfortable, lost-in-translation moment, I am learning life lessons that I won’t soon forget.

By building schools for the Lao people, we are providing them with that very same opportunity that we had – to ”bring out” their knowledge and give them choices in life.

But whether it’s a new word, a custom, or local history, I’d argue the Lao people have much to teach us in life.

And the children? They might be the wisest of all. Their laughter, passion and energy as they sit in classrooms that we helped build is contagious. They repeat their letters, help and care for each other and soak up all knowledge. When I sat there and watched them, I couldn’t help but smile.

We’re helping provide these kids with the tools of choice.

And there is no doubt that they will lead forth.

From Leslie

I’ve been in Laos for four and a half months now, with many more to come.

The transformation, the education that has come into my life is truly unquantifiable. Everyday I learn. Every moment I learn.

I learn the Lao word for watermelon (mak moo), I learn the right combination of sugar and lime juice for Pho, I learn where to park my motorbike. I learn new techniques and practices for educating youth in the developing world. I learn about this country, these people, myself, and what education brings to all of us.

A while ago I spent the afternoon with Kua, a 13-year-old at Pha Theung school. I waited for her to finish her morning class, dutifully pack away her homework and clean up her desk, then take me down to the river for an adventure.

She held my hand, sat with me in the boat, and rowed with me to the other side of the Nam Ou. Up a mountain on a rarely traversed path, we came to an old temple. She picked flowers for me, put her palm in mine, and walked me into the temple to the statue of Buddha. She taught me where to sit, where to put my hands, my flowers, and how to pray like she does.

And then we went home; Kua back to school, me back on the motorbike to Luang Prabang.

And I thought of Kua for days. She spent her hours of freedom during her school day with me, teaching me about her life and her culture.

That, for me, is it.

That is education. And the coolest thing about it? It breeds education.

The entire Lao nation is covered in smoke. Each year at this time, rice fields are lit on fire to clean out the old crops and enrich the soil so new seeds can be planted before the rainy season begins. You can smell smoke everywhere. There are no blue skies, and the sun is blocked by the hazy mist that rises from the blazing fields.

And yet as I sliced through air  stickier than Lao rice for 45 minutes on the back of a motorbike, things became very clear.

It’s impossible to understand the Lao people until you meet them. They are hardworking and content. This is their life, and they are happy to be here and enjoy it as often as possible with family and friends. The children, complete with runny noses, dirty clothes and big smiles, light up every room in which they sit. They will crush your heart with cuteness, and pictures cannot do them justice.

When I walked down the rocky dirt road into the village of Phatheung, where our very first school was built, I didn’t know what to expect. A woman to my right, looked at me with a smile and  a warm “Sabaidee,” her leather hands sorting rice. She looked 60, but is most likely 40. Here, people tend to age faster.

I walked past fishing nets hanging on a wooden post and made my way through a tunnel of bamboo huts with thatched roofs. The path led me to an open field where for the first time I laid eyes upon the Phatheung preschool. I’ll save you all of the cliches I could drop here and simply tell you that my soul jumped for joy. This is what it’s all about.

I looked to my left and just in front of the primary school stood Monster, one of our more famous preschool girls, hiding behind a pole. I waved and shouted “Sabaidee.” She smiled, waved back, and hid again. I felt like I had spotted a celebrity.

Leslie and I waited about twenty minutes for the students to break from lessons. They poured out of the classroom to see their friend Daak Fai (Leslie) and the new falang (white person) she brought with her. We played frisbee, jump rope and duck duck goose. I think the perfect moment came as we were leaving.

The kids tried to give us the toys back, and we said “bo, bo” (no) and let them know that they were theirs to keep.  An American kid might not be impressed by a one cent plastic frisbee. But the Phatheung kids were just handed gold.

Over the last year I’ve looked at photographs, heard stories and screened video of these amazing children. Now that I’ve met them I can say with confidence: seeing is believing.

And these kids give you every reason to believe.

If you want to meet PoP students and see for yourself, sign up for our build trips to Nicaragua here: http://www.pencilsofpromise.org/blog/build-trips/

Below is the third update from the field from Adam Braun, who is currently visiting Haiti with Project Medishare, a non-profit partner that is providing medical relief in Port au Prince. Adam will be updating us on his experiences in Haiti with the Project Medishare team over the next few days.

It took three hours of driving across rickety roads to get to the Central Plateau, where 200,000 people live in rural poverty. They farm for basic sustenance, selling what little surplus they have at local markets. We spent three days crossing dirt roads across the beautiful countryside, surveying schools and students.

New school structures are desperately needed, but four walls are useless without healthy students. We are going to work with Project Medishare to provide the necessary health vaccinations, education and care so that thousands of students can stay in school… and we’re going to do it with your support.

The name Pencils of Promise originates from my habit of carrying and handing out pencils to kids while backpacking. This trip was no exception. In one afternoon we visited four dilapidated wooden school structures, one of which somehow accommodated over 300 students. Each one received a new yellow pencil, which they instantly held up towards the sun for a smiling examination.

To me the pencil is so much more than a piece of wood and graphite.

It’s a symbol of opportunity.

An instrument of creativity.

A tool of self-expression.

An article of empowerment for social and economic freedom.

A key to the unlocked potential in each child.

And on one afternoon in the Haitian countryside, 500 pencils of promise were placed into tiny hands with gleaming eyes of possibility. We’re just getting started.

Pencils of Promise is committed to supporting the children of Haiti in the time of their greatest need by providing healthcare (vaccinations, vitamins, checkups, de-worming, health education, etc) for students so they can stay in school. Roughly $100K is needed to provide this for 13,000 students.

Please click here to donate and include “HELP HAITI” in the designation field.

Leslie with some current PoP students

What makes Pencils of Promise unique is our approach.  While 51% of our mission is purely dedicated to the global education crisis, 49% is dedicated to empowering people to create social good.  We refer to this as The Global Generation, which is comprised of Gen Y-ers on our side of the World and the students we are helping across the globe.  Each week, we’ll highlight a different member of the PoP Movement in what we call “PoP Profiles”.

This week’s PoP Profile features Leslie Engle, PoP’s Laos Country Director.

#1: What is your role with PoP?

I’m the PoP Laos Country Director. My job here consists of a lot of awesome things. I visit villages, check-in with schools, run assessments, write blog posts and internal and external updates, and, occasionally, get to play a game of ‘chicken, chicken, rooster’ with my favorite preschoolers in the world. I’m coordinating our SHINE program with a group of local, very high-potential teen girls and all in all, spend my time doing the best job ever.

#2: How did you first get involved with PoP?

I like to think that PoP and I found each other. I knew Adam through friends of friends through the Facebook world. At the time we met, my partner and I had just decided to move to Laos–a country we visited a couple years ago and fell in love with. A little online research and one phone conversation with Adam later, and I know PoP was what I wanted to do in Laos. As a writer, a former preschool teacher, and a perpetual traveler, we made a perfect match.

#3: What is the most exciting thing about working with PoP?

A few days ago I was out at the Nong Kiau Children’s Center playing with some kids after school. Nith, 6, sat down to read a book with me. We looked at pictures of fruit and told one another how to say their names in our respective languages. After a bit I got wrangled into a game of frisbee with some other kids. Later, I found Nith again. She was sitting at a desk drawing pictures of each fruit we talked about in her journal. She asked me to write out the word pineapple below her pencil drawing of the fruit. She then copied my letters, each line and curve executed with extreme concentration and perfection. She finished, set her pencil down, and said, ‘pineapple. Pineapple, pineapple, pineapple!’ the new word rolling in her mouth, flowing out in a gasp of excitement. She then folded up her notebook, tucked it in the band of her skirt, and scampered off to play frisbee, chanting her newly mastered word the whole way. ‘Pineapple, pineapple, pineapple!

Every single day this job is exciting.

#4: What else are you passionate about?

Good books, well-told tales, home cooked food, old friends, my partner, my family, travel. And education. I’m thankful everyday for my education and passionately believe that  access to global education will change the world.

#5: What else do you do outside of PoP (hobbies, work, etc)?

I spend time learning Lao, reading, exploring my new country and writing. I’m a former vegan who seeks out new foods and is continually learning the correct ways to cut raw pork. Oh, and my motorbike! I can’t imagine ever traveling by car again. I love long countryside rides, complete with a flat tire, a near run-in with a water buffalo, and a roadside stop for a soda.

You can also follow Leslie and her exciting adventures in Laos on her (other) blog, howlaobrowncow.com.