Written by Reed Resnikoff

(This short magazine article is not about a motorcycle tour per se, but it was written while I was on a motorcycle tour in Laos during a stopover in their capital, Vientiane. Published November 10, 2000, in the Asian Wall Street Journal.)

VIENTIANE, LAOS

    There aren't many national capitals in the world smaller than Vientiane, Laos. So while I was there, I was astonished to find myself crushed amid a pack of humanity during their That Luang Stupa Festival. It is by far Vientiane's most important holiday and it seemed like the entire city and half the countryside was packed into the temple grounds eager to begin earning merit for the coming year.

    The atmosphere was gay and ebullient in a country where causes for celebration are infrequent. Piquant temple incense and food hawker aromas wafted through the evening air. Hucksters set up games of chance and easily parted hard-earned kip, Laotian dollars, from failed ring-tossers and  errant dart-throwers. Massive speakers from a hundred stalls blared out sales pitches extolling all manner of products, from mundane items like soap powder and cooking oil on up through tantalizingly out-of-reach luxury items like color televisions and motor scooters. The entire crowd was in a buying, praying, and partying frenzy.

    And throughout all this wandered a squadron of vendors selling pairs of sparrows in tiny bamboo cages. The object is simple—buy the birds and set them free. This is considered a very good thing to do for the sparrows, and according to Buddhist beliefs, earns their releaser merit on judgment day. This same act is also said to bring you luck and makes your wishes come true. All this for less than a buck, and you get to keep the cute little cages.

    I'm not a Buddhist, and I should have known better than to get involved with foreign and exotic religious rituals. But caught up in the infectious spirit of the festivities, I purchased a cage holding two sparrows. Good luck, from no matter which divine source, is always welcome.

    With eyes closed I made a wish and opened the bars to reunite my feathered friends with Mother Nature. Both sparrows just sat there blinking and showed not the slightest interest in freedom. Meanwhile, everyone else's birds were taking off like missiles as soon as they sniffed liberty.

    I gave the cage a jiggle, and then a harder shake, and still the warblers wouldn't budge. I tried poking them out with a twig but they would not resign their toe-grip on the bamboo bars. Squeezing my fist into the tiny cage I ever-so-gently pried out one sparrow. When I unfurled my fingers it sat stock-still nestled in my open palm looking up at me. With an upward thrust I launched the sparrow skywards, but it tumbled pathetically back down to the ground with hardly a wing flap. The sparrow was now in mortal danger of being waffled beneath the milling mob's flip-flops. Bent over double, I scrambled after the hip-hopping bird and managed to snare it. I re-released it into a fenced-off grassy patch surrounding a statue of an ancient king where no foot could trod. During all this time the bird's mate sat perched eyeing an inviting open door, ignoring emancipation.

    By now a crowd of onlookers had gathered round me, commiserating at my plight and proffering advice in several languages and dialects about what to do with the remaining bird. "Don't put it into the grassy area," I was warned, "because a rat will eat it." "The bird won't fly out because it is night time." "The bird can't fly because it is too young." "It is too old." "It is too weak." "It is sick." Somehow I had purchased two physically or mentally defective birds.

    The fate of one of Lord Buddha's tiniest, frailest, and most insignificant creatures was now inextricably entangled with my own karmic future. Bad luck was staring me in the face if I couldn't get my birdy airborne and out of my life forever. Instead of doing a good deed, which was my original intention, the deaths of two innocent sparrows looked likely to stain my hands. Why oh why did I ever get involved!

    I had to do everything in my power to save the life of my one remaining warbler, or shuffle off this responsibility on someone else. There were no volunteers—no one wanted a complimentary bird that refused to fly. I searched around for the sparrow vendor who started this all but she was lost in the crowd. Abandonment was out of the question.

    I'm the furthest thing from an ornithologist, but one thing I do know is that birds (except for owls and bats) don't fly at night. This fact seemed the most logical explanation for my predicament. I postponed my sparrow launching until morning. But a horrid thought crossed my mind—would my earth-bound sparrow live to see the morrow? I couldn't bear it if it died while in my care. And it had to be in poor condition or it would have long been gone. And God only knows how long it was caged without food or water while awaiting a purchaser—this scrawny sparrow can't have much in the way of energy reserves.

    I was also worried that this tropical rainforest flyer would freeze to death back in my air-conditioned hotel room. So I took precautions. In the hallway from a discarded room service tray, I snatched a cold French fry, without ketchup . Next, I tried to find the smallest object that could act as a water container and used the lid of a film canister. The fry and foot bath took up half the cage's floor space, and Tweety, now extremely agitated by such unfamiliar decor, promptly upended the water. I weighted the water holder down with pebbles from a planter and this worked—maybe it was the natural look. My sparrow took a few tentative sips and pecked at the fry. I tucked Tweety in for the night by wrapping a hotel-initialed bath towel around his cage along with a tea thermos for warmth, and making sure to leave a big gap for air.

    With great trepidation I fell asleep. First thing in the morning I snuck a nervous peak into the towel and was overjoyed to find Tweety looking none the worse for wear. I carried the cage to my open window, raised its door, and the sparrow shot out in a whir of wings like a feathered F-18. And with that flight the weight of the world floated off my shoulders.

    The route was a torturous one but I think I earned some extra merit from my avian adventure.
 

Words COPYRIGHT of Reed Resnikoff. NO UNAUTHORIZED USE  IS PERMITTED. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2009.

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