Book trips 2023 - Lai Chau, Vietnam - Chu Nhat Yeu Thuong (Part 2)
The Book Festival caravan of Chủ Nhật Yêu Thương rolled on, wheels leaving Phin Ngan behind like a fading dream.
Sleepy eyelids fluttered open as the car crested a pass, revealing a breathtaking valley slumbering in the morning light. Scattered houses clung to the hillsides, evidence of the land reclamation that had tamed these wild slopes.
For Vietnamese version, please read here (bấm vào đây để đọc tiếng Việt)
Sì Lở Lầu
But Sì Lở Lầu, our next destination, wasn't for the faint of heart. "Twelve Slopes," they called it in Quan Hoa (a dialect of mandarin in South China), a dizzying dance of switchbacks and sheer drops. Every turn sent hearts pinging like loose change, the thin air buzzing in our ears. Silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the crunch of tires on gravel and the occasional gasp of awe as the valley unfolded below, a verdant patchwork stitched with tiny villages.
Finally, the car coughed its last gasp at Si Lo Lau Ethnic Boarding School, a sprightly oasis in this rugged terrain. Hungry tummies rumbled, but Tu Anh had other plans. "Out with the cooking gear!" he shooed us out, pots and pans in tow. Lunchtime for the kids, that was the drill.
We swarmed the kitchen like ants on a picnic – frying shrimp and squid, washing juicy Ninh Thuan grapes, even setting up computers (gifts for the school, opening up a world of information!).
Tu Anh, ever the spark plug, grabbed two squiggly squids, fresh from their ice bath, and marched them into the yard. The kids, faces smudged from yard adventures, watched in wide-eyed wonder as he paraded these strange creatures.
"What's this?" he boomed. "Where does it live?" "Ever eaten it?"
The word "sea" echoed like a spell, conjuring up a world beyond these mountain walls. Had they ever tasted its salty embrace? Felt the sand squelch between their toes?
For us, these might seem like trivial questions, but for these children, they were seeds of possibility, planted in fertile ground. The sea, once a distant myth, became a tangible dream, a horizon beckoning them beyond the familiar peaks. Tu Anh knew that curiosity was the key, a tiny flame that could ignite a fire of wanderlust, urging them to spread their wings like those soaring mountain birds.
And then, the books. Fresh, crisp pages unfolded like vibrant landscapes, filled with stories waiting to be explored. Eyes devoured illustrations, voices stumbled through unfamiliar words, and the schoolyard buzzed with the magic of tales whispered and dreams taking flight. "Read it, tell us about it," Tu Anh called, a teddy bear dangling like a reward. Those furry companions, symbols of comfort and adventure, became a beacon, urging the children to dive headfirst into the ocean of stories.
Si Lo Lau may have been "Twelve Slopes," but our hearts soared on wings of hope that day. We left not just full bellies and excited minds, but with a renewed faith in the power of curiosity, the magic of stories, and the boundless dreams that can take flight even from the most remote corners of the world.
In the schoolyard, cheerful chaos of whispers rose from children nestled in corners with books, punctuated by Tu Anh's voice crackling from speakers and bursts of excited singing.
The midday sun was high, time for lunch. Kids perched on chairs, eager eyes watching as teachers heaped rice and veggies onto their trays. Meanwhile, the kitchen was a beehive of activity. Shrimp steamed, snail-meat balls sizzled, Nem Ran (spring rolls) danced in oil, and stir-fries piled high. We, the outsiders, buzzed around, helping clear plates and ferry food. Red shrimp, green vegetables, fluffy white rice – enough to make any kid's eyes glint.
Shyness lingered, shy glances towards our unfamiliar faces. But when the food arrived, their eyes burst with excitement. We went table to table, patiently demonstrating shrimp peeling and sauce dipping. These unfamiliar flavors, we hoped, would be a passport to new taste bud galaxies, firing up dreams as big as the mountains themselves.
The clatter of trays filled the air as lunch finished, tiny ants diligently washing their own trays at the water tank. They even helped sweep the dining room, little hands stacking dishes with practiced ease. (A big shout-out to the teachers who polished these rough gems!)
By 2 PM, with ten desktop computers humming to life, our fifty-two-strong crew piled back into buses, heading further up the mountain for the Book Fair and overnight stay.
Same craggy peaks, same dizzying cliffs. Our two cars were followed by the boarding school's, the head teacher and two others flanking us. As we pulled over and disembarked to the edge of the road, a steep path emerged up the hill towards the village school. As soon as we unloaded things out, the duty teacher motorcycled down the path, eager to guide us. Let the mountain climbing and gear schlepping continue!
The village path was a narrow gut punch – rocks poking through grass, leaves whispering over wildflowers. Towering bamboo sang in the wind, welcoming us through an elbow turn and into a hidden valley. Nestled below, like sun-bleached stones, sat dozens of cement houses, their roofs dark with tales of rain and sun. The village school was a row of three basic rooms, their front doors facing the valley like wide-open eyes.
No sooner had we arrived than our tribe sprung into action. Books blossomed on makeshift mats, milk bottles flew into children's hands, the shrimp brigade stormed the kitchen, and grape washers swarmed their bowls. The rest of us hauled stuff inside the schoolroom, tired bodies finding rest while energetic souls joined the children on the playground.
Joke-telling was my forte (okay, maybe I was just lazy), and my hoarse voice found new reserves amidst the mischievous giggles.
Books devoured, bellies full, and a chill crept in on the wind. Parents arrived, reclaiming their precious kids. We, armed with tables, chairs, and rechargeable lamps, followed some families home, eager to be lamplighters. These little gifts, we hoped, would ignite a love for writing, a thirst for knowledge, and the freedom to paint their own dreams onto the canvas of life.
Pigs squealed on the narrow path as we walked, the earthy scent of livestock mingling with the winter-kissed air. But inside each house, a different magic lingered – the warm aroma of drying corn, the comforting weight of stored rice, and the quiet hum of hope. In each corner, we nestled a table, a chair, a bookshelf, and a rechargeable lamp, tiny beacons whispering, "Let your dreams shine a little brighter now."
And as we left, hearts warmed by shared laughter and bellies full of pork-fried dreams, we knew that though the mountains were steep and the roads were rough, these small acts of kindness had built bridges across valleys, one story, one smile, one lamp at a time.
The sun finally took a tumble behind the mountains, leaving a twilight sky bruised with purple and fire. Back at school, the aroma of dinner hung heavy in the air, a symphony of simmering spices and sizzling delight. I gotta hand it to our cooking crew. Those folks were workhorses, whipping up feasts for the kids then turning their attention to us weary travelers. Not a single complaint, not a muttered groan (unlike me, who whines after a sniff of uphill!).
We seized the chance to wash away the day's grime, which meant knocking on doors and borrowing buckets of icy water. "Bathing" might be a generous term for my quick scrub-and-rinse. Every bucket was a shock to the system, sending shivers tap-dancing down my spine. Brrrr, that water was mountain-cold!
But the chill melted away fast when we stepped into the night. Dinner, a fragrant mountain feast, graced two rows of student tables. Bellies full and hearts light, we spilled out into the yard, drawn by the merry crackle of a bonfire.
And then, magic. We joined hands, weaving a circle around the flames, and the air throbbed with the rhythm of the H'Mong dance, an ancient pulse beating in our very bones. Village teachers lifted their voices in song, their melodies wrapping around us like woven blankets, a chorus of laughter and warmth. The fog crept in, painting the night in hazy brushstrokes, but our spirits soared. We danced, we sang, we told stories that crackled like the fire, stars our watchful audience.
Finally, around ten, Tu Anh, ever the pragmatist, went around the yard and reminded us of our early-morning descent. With heavy hearts and lighter bodies, we drifted off to sleep, dreams of mountain roads and smiling faces swirling in our heads.
The next day, the sun would paint the sky anew, and we, the caravan of Chu Nhat Yeu Thuong, would roll on, leaving behind echoes of laughter and the faint scent of woodsmoke, a whisper of magic in the mountain air.
