Those wishes require some background. The Ziemers were longtime Toledo neighbors and friends. The family belonged to an evangelical Protestant sect called the Christian and Missionary Alliance (CMA) in which many adherents become missionaries. Marie and Rev. Bob Ziemer for many years ran a highly respected leprosarium in the highlands of South Vietnam near Ban Me Tuot.
They avoided the violence of the Indochina War until the Tet Offense of 1968. Then North Vietnamese soldiers appeared and shot all the Americans. Bob and four other missionaries were killed. Marie, severely wounded, survived by feigning death. Their daughter Beth and her husband Rick Drummond were away and escaped the slaughter. Marie came home. The Drummonds were sent to a mission in Vientiane, Laos. My Mother, quite unknown to me, for years had been providing financial support to the leprosarium. She asked me to seek out the Drummonds in Vientiane and gave me a check to pass on.
While that seemed a simple mission, complications arose. Laos was an independent country, ostensibly neutral, where a passport and visa were required to gain entry. I was OK but Frank, my Lao speaker and guide, had no passport because it was being renewed at the Embassy in Bangkok. “Let’s boat across the Mekong and take our chances at the border,” I suggested.
Reluctantly he agreed but insisted that I also go sans passport. We drove to a small Thai village immediately across the Mekong from Vientiane. There Frank convinced a local police official to write out a document claiming we were known to him (and not dangerous spies). After signing, he handed it to Frank with a torrent of language.
“What was that all about?” I asked as we left the office.
“He says this document isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
Unsettled but undeterred by the news, we hired a water taxi -- actually a glorified rowboat with a small outboard motor -- to take us across the muddy Mekong, a distance of about a half mile. When we hit the shore, Frank bounded up the steep bank, brandishing the paper, spouting Lao like a machine gun. The sight of a six foot two inch, 220 pound farong speaking their language like a native seemed to mesmerize the guards and within two or three minutes we had cleared the border and were on our way by taxi into town.
I had the Drummonds’ address and after a few wrong turns, we shortly arrived at the Protestant church in Vientiane. We found Rick in an adjoining house but Beth was away. We spent some time talking to him about the tragic events of the previous year and their subsequent lives. I passed on my Mother’s check and good wishes. As we rose to go, Rick offered to drive us back to the border. We agreed.
“Stop,” he said as we waved goodbye and headed to the river, “I want to take your picture.” We obliged but those few seconds were all it took for the Lao border guards to regain their composure.” “We didn’t get any money from those Americans on the way in,” Frank heard one say. “Let’s get it now.”
“Run,” Frank commanded and we bounded down the steep embankment. I looked back to see the guards following us. Fortuitously, a water taxi was just leaving with just one brown-clad monk as a passenger. He watched wide-eyed as we splashed toward the boat and flung ourselves headfirst into the bow. Within seconds we were on the open river and on our way back to Thailand. The guards turned away in disgust.
Several years later I was chatting with Bill Sullivan, who was the U.S. ambassador to Laos at that time, and mentioned being in Vientiane in 1969. “I don’t remember your visit,” Sullivan (no relation) commented.
“If we had been caught,” I responded, “you definitely would have known.”
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