Just about a year ago, my Charity Sunday focused on Big Brother Mouse, a home-grown non-profit working to provide educational opportunities for kids in Laos. They publish books in the Lao language as well as building and operating schools that focus not just on literacy, but also on independent thinking and self-reliance.
A few weeks ago I received a fascinating and far-ranging newsletter from the organization (which you can read here), which convinced me to dedicate this month’s Charity Sunday to their work. For every comment I receive on this post, I’ll donate two dollars.
Most of you probably know little or nothing about Laos, but it’s one of my favorite places, with amazing scenery, a deeply spiritual atmosphere and ancient history and culture. Most important, the Lao are, overall, among the warmest and most generous people I’ve met, even though the country has many problems and is painfully poor. I’ve visited there four or five times in the past two decades. I can see progress and development, but there’s still a sense of timelessness.
In my last Big Brother Mouse post, I included an excerpt from Vows, the only story I have written that is set in Laos. Not wanting to repeat myself, I considered augmenting this post with some description from my recently re-released first novel Raw Silk, set in Thailand (which is Laos’ more wealthy neighbor). This wouldn’t really give you much understanding of the Lao, though.
Then I remembered a poem I’d written, way back in 1997 when I first visited the country. We started in the capital Vientiane, then flew in what was probably a military surplus plane to the former capital Luang Prabang. The plane flew so low we barely cleared the tops of the mountains. The view was... well, read the poem to find out.
It’s a bit long but I think it does somewhat capture the experience.
Most of the streets in Luang Prabang are paved now (I was last there in 2019) but aside from that it hasn’t greatly changed. Lane Xang is the old name for this for this city, located in the highlands where two rivers join to form the Mekhong .
To Luang Prabang
November 3, 1997
Slight scent of mold;
the seats are tired,
cushions threadbare,
belts limp,
propeller there
through my porthole-window
(I’ll see it fail
if we lose an engine);
this fragile craft
from a forties movie
(I know, not really,
but can’t help looking
for Humphrey Bogart.)
The plane shudders,
propeller whirls
and disappears.
Something tears
at my throat as we try
to leave the earth:
not really fear,
more a sense of wonder
that I should be here.
Now, aloft,
the walls of this craft
vibrate and hum.
A steady drum
of condensation
drips in my lap,
but I hardly notice,
my nose pressed
to the misted glass,
my personal viewport
to times past.
A virgin world,
or so it seems;
brocade of every
shade of green:
emerald, jade,
chartreuse and teal,
draped and wrinkled
on limestone hills,
stitched by winding
liquid silver.
I almost feel
in my palm and fingers
the varied textures,
curves and hollows,
running my hand
in a mental caress
over the land.
A ribbon of road,
a dusty red,
tracing the contours,
hugging the ridges –
A hilltop, bald,
The greenish gold
of ripening rice
and a square hut
at the field’s corners.
Then higher, and now,
we fly among castles,
towers and peaks,
cloud as solid
as any earth
to the touch of my mind.
Valleys are veiled
then partly revealed.
Occasional sunbeam
pierces the mist
to wake the light
from a hidden stream.
Then I catch the sweep
of the mighty Mekhong,
the mother-river;
brown velvet
sequin-embroidered.
The forests flee.
A patchwork of paddy
carpets the valley.
So down we swoop
(my heart in my mouth)
and the layered roofs
and gilded spires
of the ancient seat
of Lane Xang
rise up to greet me
from unpaved streets.
Be sure to leave a comment. Every one means more money for books and schools.
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