Chapter 15. Lemongrass Stains - Luang Prabang

---

Either the secret is out or it was never a secret to being with. Luang Prabang is an idyllic peninsula of greenery, Lao royal history draped in French architecture, and hip Westerners who can finally look casually chic in Laos without trying. The premier destination for all of Laos, the city’s accolades are justified. It makes Vientiane look like an industrial accident. Beware: the spoils of the Lao Shangri-La come at a price. Boutiques, eco this and that, touts, beggars, herbal spas, and dishonest tuk-tuk drivers all want a piece of the action. The prolific number of wats are true (and few) enclaves of sanity amid the signs for bicycle rentals, ethnic restaurants, and upscale hotels. Even the large number of humble monks and apprentices cannot compete with the influx of Westerners. Luang Prabang nurture’s every whim and need for the Westerner, right down to a wide selection of Che Guevara t-shirts for useful idiots. Come to Luang Prabang and let it seep in. Just remember you will never be alone.
French doors never really lock shut. My room is on the second floor of a renovated (in some places) French-style guesthouse. It is a wonderful example of how France exported its taste to suit other cultures and climates. I marvel at the classic and glossy, however warped, hardwood floors. The ceiling fan over the beds soothingly hums. It is a sound that blends in with the rest of the aesthetics. My windows open inward to the room, and I can close the shutters, now screened to keep insects from invading. But there is a natural backup plan. I share my twin-bedded room with two pale lizards. As they scamper on the walls close to the edge with the ceiling, they consume that which will drive me crazy at night. Their screeching and chirping convinces me strangely enough that I will be sleeping very well tonight. My room, the entire guesthouse in fact, could very well be the setting for a French Foreign Legion film. Instead of Vieng at the front desk handing me my key, it is not hard to envision a low-level officer in a pencil-thin mustache typing away with a film of sweat from his forehead that has stained his képis.
Fortunately, with a fragment of independent thought, the Luang Prabang belonging to local Laos is not too hard to find. The Chang Café sets its tables above the banks of the Nam Khan a few hundred yards away from the tourist strip. Except for the odd Westerner scouting the parts of the peninsula without travel agencies at an early hour of the morning, it is where I have my breakfast of baguette, scrambled eggs, and jasmine tea. My waiter carries full trays across the street and deftly avoids speeding mopeds and pickup trucks. While my order is being prepared, we go over his English-Lao vocabulary book. It’s a good thing since the cook must run up and buy three eggs at a local shop. I also note that it would be practical to buy perhaps a dozen to save him the trip several times each morning. But no, he returns with just the three to fill my order. It reminds me I am in the Lao P.D.R. P.D.R. in this case stands for Please Don’t Rush
Today, my waiter is concentrating on fruits. He studies while leaning over his moped. We help each other out: I pronounce each word and he repeats. In turn, he tells me what the fruits actually are, as Laos produces exotic specimens well beyond pineapple, melon, and banana. “This one”, he says, “is big, green, and bumpy. When you open it, it is sweet, and then it turns sour. Star fruit. Good for juices.” I had the same trouble in Brazil. There are no words in English for fruit that doesn’t exist in our culture.
The pot of tea arrives and a boy on the far side of the Nam Khan, soon to empty into the Mekong, has jumped into the river. He isn’t interested in a swim, rather to quickly get to the other side. The footbridge is several hundred yards upstream. In his right hand he holds a plastic bag of belongings above his head so nothing gets wet. He sidestrokes across in no time and rushes up the bank to street level.

Wats are more common in Luang Prabang than Seven Elevens are in Thailand. Monks occupy each one, performing maintenance, providing instruction, or engrossed in prayer. My local wat, Wat Xieng Muan, is especially neat. The apprentice monks have learned to reintroduce traditional Lao handicrafts, which had been lost for almost thirty years. I reluctantly give the U.N. credit for this, and do acknowledge Luang Prabang’s U.N.E.S.C.O. status as a World Heritage Site. Today the boys are creating woodcarvings. Others are manicuring the gardens or watering flowers. The monks neither greet nor ignore visitors. They are deep in thought and prefer to go about their chores undisturbed. Consequently, visitors are welcome to stay and watch, as long as we are out of the way.
I think every visitor should declare their local wat. It should be no different that a pub, corner shop, or a restaurant one frequents back home. Everyday, it would be appropriate to pay your allegiance by simply walking through the compound, pause for a moment of silent reflection, and be on your way. Xieng Muan differs from Wat Sikhounmuang in that my boys don’t get to watch television at night. Mine seem to be more pious.
I try to be very accepting of other religions and Buddhism is endearing to me. However, the boys really tired my patience at four in the morning when they rattled the bass drums at the shrine for fifteen whole minutes. My faith was tested. I stared at the fan ceiling and begged them to stop. I never become angry or conceived a hostile thought, though I came close. I figure I passed the test.
It would also be neat to greet the monks and help out once in a while by bringing them supplies or cold drinks. As people become more attached to each wat, I see it going to the next level. Senior monks can organize three-on-three basketball tournaments and maybe even establish a summer softball league. The only problem would be that each team would insist on wearing orange. I have no way to remedy this.

A highly revered elder monk died last week. In his honor, Wat Sa-en is hosting a pre-funeral reception for the clergyman, whose five-foot tall full-length photograph is illuminated at a smaller shrine. The public enters the wat, kneels, and places candles, small bank notes, or flowers at the foot of the display. It is a large community gathering; Buddhist leaders have prepared well. Scores of tables and chairs are set up. All the temples are open and ready to receive visitors. The floor fans are churning to battle the stagnant air. It is not particularly a sad occasion on this late and muggy evening, but the volume of conversation rarely rises above a whisper. Away from the main tables, I pull up a chair to simply watch the unceremonious proceedings, as the funeral is scheduled in four days. The monks and I take notice of each other and we can only send a gentle “Sabaidee” back and forth to each other. One monk lifts a plastic table from a stack near a shed so I can write more comfortably in my notebook. I can only offer him a wai and a thank you in Lao. As I do, I realize that in the center of Luang Prabang, the tourist magnet of the entire nation, hundreds of Westerners are dining and starting their Friday night imbibing within view of the temples’ elegantly lit roofs and pagodas. I am the only foreigner in the wat. Two streets away, Belgians intermingle over four-dollar cheese pizzas and songs by Christina Aguilera. One couple dares to stick their necks in, but they immediately withdraw. A wake for a cleric isn’t on their itinerary. Their natural curiosity has succumbed to their primordial fear of the unknown.
Mostly women sit before the large Buddha inside the main temple. They chat, but ensure their feet do not point in the direction of the golden statue. Perfumed incense permeates the heavy air. Flute melodies gently touch the ears. The monks speak in the softest of tones. The sheer number of them is striking, there have to be nearly two hundred of them in attendance. There are times to take photographs; this isn’t one of them. Since crossing the Mekong at Nong Khai, I had seen some of Laos. Now I have felt it.

Some people just get it. Two Chinese girls and a British bus driver do. The sun had already dipped behind the darkened mountains. The absence of its rays on the earthen Mekong transforms the river’s surface to a fine silver gloss. Motorcades of scooters buzz by at our backs. “You need taxi? Tuk-tuk?” asked a driver abruptly. The four of us did not acknowledge him. Three American college students in t-shirts and sandals bark at their friends thirty yards away from a restaurant table already covered in empty Beerlao bottles. The British man has leaned against an inclined tree and stares at the residual beauty of wisps of fine pinks in the clouds that outline deep oranges of our fading star. The Chinese girls barely whisper, but point to the detail in the puffy nimbus formations. It is my third different stage for a sunset on the Mekong; none more or less superior than the others. The British man walks away, not having spoken a word. One Chinese girl greets me and asks me if I’d like to join them for a drink. Her face is long and slender, like her milky legs. Against all instincts, I decline. It is now my fourth day of intestinal instability and I need to be within a short sprint of safety. “But I will be here tomorrow”, I added. “If you are here-”
“Oh, we are in Luang Prabang tomorrow, too.”
“Good, tomorrow then?”

A hefty woman brings a pail of radiant coals to a pit already set in the table. Strings of naked light bulbs are suspended from trees. The Nam Khan gurgles below in the darkness. It is too early too retire. I find myself at a table in a makeshift restaurant with a cold drink even though the bacterial festivities in my nether regions have suppressed my appetite.
Above the small pit, she sets a covered metal pan filled with water through which steam escapes and heats the meat and vegetables patrons place on top. As soon as the Mekong seaweed and chunks of chicken hit the hot surface, a sharp sizzle cracks through the air. Mom, Dad, and their little girl in pony tails are having a barbecue, Lao style. The toddler becomes rather cranky when she doesn’t get what she wants. Mom tries to settle her down. When the food is done, there is something for her to do. She has her dinner quietly. As in the United States, women may make dinner for the family. But the grill is the man’s domain. I find the comparison extremely humorous. As Dad tosses the seaweed and sprouts about the metal surface, his face is stern and he dismisses any distractions. Back in the United States lakeside while camping, dads in stain-soaked aprons (the only time they wear aprons all year!) carefully turn burgers and check if the chicken is ready to hit the table. I walk over to place a lapel pin on the little girl’s dress sleeve and her parents offer me a seat to share their meal. Most families earn around one hundred dollars a month. Dinner out is a rare treat for them. I am grateful and finish my drink with them. But I rub my belly to indicate that I am too ill. I show them my bottle of pills, which I hope will permit me to enjoy tomorrow. They understand.

A highlight of a primary school child’s day is when the teacher brings the class to the library. Each one in the class takes five to ten minutes to deposit last week’s book borrowed from the shelves, scans for a new one that catches their eyes, and flips through it. If the colorful images and title are satisfactory, she gets in line to sign it out for the next seven days. She will expect to read it by herself or spend quiet time with her parents before bed learning the words and being captivated by flying elephants with big ears and a rotund golden bear whose lifelong friends are Christopher, a gloomy donkey, a tiny swine, and a rambunctious tiger.
A Lao child knows no such exhilaration because the type of books our children take for granted simply do not exist. For that reason, American Sasha Alyson unleashed his philanthropic sprit and launched Big Brother Mouse to slowly bring the joy of reading to Lao children. The reality in Laos is that children only read books on grammar, mathematics, and science. At a young age, they associate reading with a laborious task resulting in homework. It is never fun, never inspiring, and dissuades them form picking up books in their free time. Few Lao adults read books or have any at home.
Big Brother Mouse is the first to produce children’s picture books for Lao children in their native language. With offices in Luang Prabang and Vientiane, they distribute a variety of books ranging from picture dictionaries to Lao folktales. Currently, the staff is working to find a copy of The Wizard of Oz and put it in Lao. Other staff members thumb through English-Lao dictionaries to learn the proper meaning to new words.
While running the gauntlet of street vendors near my guesthouse, I joined a cheerful Tha Tao at the company’s humble offices to learn more. Tha is a member of the Hmong tribe and grew up in a tiny village north of Luang Prabang. He is a recent school graduate and a full-time staff member at Big Brother Mouse. He has illustrated three of the releases, including The Cat That Meditated. It is a bilingual work so children can also take in some English. “What got you started with Big Brother Mouse?”
“Schools in Laos do not have picture books. Until I was twelve, I had never seen one. So, when I found out about Big Brother Mouse, I thought it was great.”
“What is the purpose behind Big Brother Mouse?”
With the help of Gail, an Australian volunteer, Tha explained. “Many tourists come here. They go to villages and meet people. Tourists like to give to people in the villages, money or candy. This is no good. Then, all Lao village people want is money and children are unhappy if they get no sweets. We think, ‘Hey, you…buy this book!’ They are cheap for tourists and instead of money or candy, they can hand one child a picture book.”
I wondered, “What is the child’s reaction?”
“They love it! They run back home and show the family.” With money, it is just paper to give to someone else. But the book is for them exclusively. “Their eyes get very big. They have never seen a happy book before. They always smile. Then they will like to read.”
Big Brother survives on private donations, contributions from tourists, and sponsors. Six thousand books covering thirty-one different titles came off the presses in their first printing. Big Brother Mouse will be in Nong Kiaow for a presentation, reading, and book fair next week. They invited me to join them.
“Parents help their children read, too.”
The literacy rate in Laos stands at nearly eighty percent. “So, do some adults improve their reading skills with these books?”
“Yes”, Tha replied. “They read and learn together.”
“But don’t schools have these kinds of books?”
He was insistent. “No! Families have to pay the school to borrow books. It is a lot of money for them. We charge $1.50 for each book.” For a European, that is one lousy Euro. “All we ask is that one person buy a book and give it to a child. $1.50 is too much for Lao families to pay.” It is a meager request.
“How about the government? The Ministry of Education?”
Tha remained composed. “No, they do not help. Also, rich people in Laos do not help.”, he added with a disappointing tone. This did not surprise me. Throughout the Third World, it is not in the upper class’ economic interest to raise or educate the peasantry. Some even perceive it as a threat.
Tha’s raw ambition invigorates me. He sleeps in a small room upstairs. He doesn’t emit a single vibration of negativity. It came as a surprise to me that he has picked up spoken English as well as he has; he has never been outside of Laos, to Vientiane, or more than one hundred miles from his home.

Tha and staff set up a display for tourists that begin to wander among the carpets of cheap goods for sale at dusk. Big Brother Mouse is not selling a souvenir, but a child’s potential at the cost of twenty minutes parking in Geneva. I watched Gail hook a German couple without the least bit of pressure or attempt to make them feel guilty. As she did, I pointed this out to Tha. “You see, it isn’t the message, it’s the delivery.” Tha was paying very close attention. He wanted to learn. And Gail was an excellent model. Next to arrive was a Dutch family of three. I do not know what possessed me, but I grabbed a book and gave it to the mother for her inspection. “Goede avond, Ik ben hier…” And on I went with my shtick. They bought three books. Between the French, two Spanish women and a generous Swede, I sold nine books that evening, and Tha smiled the entire time. I pocketed the cash, bagged their selections, and thanked them each time.
The crowds dispersed for the bars. I handed Tha a clump of Lao notes totaling a little over thirteen dollars. “Great!” he said to me, as he closed up and locked the sliding door to his office. I slung my pack around my shoulder. “This has been a good evening. We sold more than before. Thank you, Rich. You showed me a lot tonight.”
“No, Tha. Not really. You showed me a great deal more.”

---

Photos

Meditation on the Mekong
Quiet scenes are not so hard to find...

Well Adapted
French colonial architecture...

Lao BBQ
Having dinner with the family...

Dusk in Luang Prabang
My evening constitutional...

Mekong Sunset
It is best not to speak and just look....