Bring on the Clowns!

I do cop to being a cheap bastard.  Mostly, I’d prefer to buy rather than rent, and given my druthers, I’d like to see that thing I bought appreciate in value.  Or at least hold steady.  And so it landed heavily on my ears when Rebecca declared her need for a bike.

“Find me a bike today.  Check out that sport shop on the way to the hospital.  I like the looks of the ones with the basket in front, and the fake leather hand grips.  Make sure it has a bell.”  OK.  So I’d done a bit of sleuthing, and knew the bike she described to be a piece of shit.  And way over-priced.  But I also knew the only other choice to be a pink high-handlebar number with a mythical unicorn emblazoned on the chain guard.

“How about we rent you one?  Could work out to be a bit cheaper…”  This has become a pretty serious tourist town, and as such, there are no ends of bike and scooter rentals catering to the masses.  Just about every guesthouse has them lined up out front, and the prices are not bad—two to three dollars a day.  The quality is also a tad higher than that of the bike for purchase, though I dare say they’re rather poorly maintained.  

Mind, I know where Rebecca stands on this matter, in that she is not a cheap bastard (like me.)  Truth told, she’s rather generous.  “I want to donate it to the hospital when we leave.  They could use it.”

(Dammit, girl! How we ever gonna get anywhere in this world if we’re forever giving it all away?)

I’m not much for the game of chess, but know enough to see my king had just been worked into a tight bind.  There’s logic and reason, and then there’s compassion and heart.  Spend a couple days in the children’s hospital of Luang Prabang, and the latter makes the former seem rather small.  I didn’t argue the point, and picked her up the bike of her choice yesterday.  It’s sitting in the courtyard of our guesthouse as I write this post.  

There’s more.  Having purchased Rebecca’s bike, I figured I’d use my new-found mobility to scour the town for anything remotely close to a shop with quality bikes, which meant heading for the center of tourist town.  

Soon enough, I located a shop dedicated to taking people on rides around Luang Prabang.  Things get pretty rough road-wise just beyond the town limits, so this place—Tiger Trail Tours—stocks fairly modern mountain bikes built to industry standards.  Twenty-nine inch wheels, disk brakes, front suspension.  The dude behind the counter was just closing up, but suggested I might get a deal on a long-term rental, though no way would the owner agree to sell one of his cash cows.  I grabbed a Specialized Rockhopper parked near the shop door, gave him my driver’s license and 50,000 kip (approx. six dollars) and was on my way.  He had another employee lead the mountain bike next to his motor scooter and follow me as I rode Rebecca’s piece of shit through the congestion of rush hour Luang Prabang and, finally, our guesthouse. Time to check out the new ride.

This is not a crazy big town, with a population of roughly 431,000. The countries’ capital, Vientiane, only sports roughly 783,000 souls.  All of Laos doesn’t quite top seven million, according to world population review. So I already have a feel for things, and thought I’d see how long it takes to ride to the hospital—roughly four kilometers from our guesthouse. Not to brag or anything, but I still got it.  Held my own against the locals on scooters and tuk tuks.  The old third-world eyes-in-the-back-of-my-head still seem to work, I guess.  

There’s an open air waiting area just outside the hospital check-in desk.  Behind that is a smaller, more private area where families can sleep, cook, and generally lean on each other while waiting on the fate of their sick child.  Many come from far reaches of the country for the free help the hospital provides, and can easily wait all day before things free up enough to get checked in.  

The waiting area has fans whirring overhead, a big flat screen TV for educational films, sinks with soap, and a row of squat toilets and showers.  There’s also a water cooler with a five gallon jug of clean water to drink and a community cup. As I was washing my face and hands in one of the sinks, I was aware of an odd chirping sound and sensed people crowding in behind me.  

I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and when I put my glasses back on saw in the mirror a bright red clown wig and nose.  When I turned around, there was the whole clown, spouting mile-a-minute, bird-like gibberish and giving me a curious look.  

I considered for a minute before declaring, “Nothing like a clown nose to take the bite out of a hot day.  You speak English?”  She nodded toward a little boy, maybe six or seven years old, in a wheelchair with one of his legs and arms bandaged.  In his good hand was a small plastic noise-maker which he now shook violently while moving his lips to match the chirping sound the noisemaker made— sounding alot like the clown.  They made quite the team.  His smile split his face.  

I smiled, too. He did it again. I laughed.  Repeat.  And, as sometimes happens, the whole thing started to get really funny.  I noticed all the other people sitting around were smiling and laughing at our little exchange. It dawned on me, too, that there was no elegant way to stop the laughing.  One doesn’t cut short a little kid’s joy—especially a little kid who is covered in bandages and who, despite that unfortunate fact, showed no inclination to stop our little game. And so it turned into a proper laugh-fest orgy for the whole waiting area, which was just the thing on a hot and dusty Monday afternoon.  

All of which is to say: hats off to the clown.  I didn’t get her name, but she did share that she speaks French when not speaking gibberish and making the kids laugh.  

 Later, while riding back to the guesthouse, I considered her effort for the act of generosity and courage it is.  Sometimes something silly is the best thing there is, and odd as it sounds, silly takes courage and strength.  As does giving.  Playing it safe and making a profit, or following the rules and doing one’s duty, are surely important building blocks of a secure social order.  Cheap bastards build empires, I guess.  But clowns…clowns build castles. And sometimes, those castles float up among the clouds in the sky.