5 a.m. on the Mekong. No one dared move. They held their breath, in case the Pathet Lao soldiers heard them. Chanthip strained her ears through the darkness but there was complete silence, apart from the water gently lapping against their small canoe. A dog barked somewhere on the outskirts of Huei Sai. What was that? A footstep or just the pounding of her heart? Chanthip’s imagination started playing tricks. We’re mad to try to escape. I don’t want to be shot. This is too risky. She checked herself and took a deep, trembling breath, letting it out slowly. The alternative is just as risky. Father is right – better to flee to freedom than remain virtual prisoners here in Huei Sai.

Vongchan, her brother stretched the cramp out of his leg, shivering in the cold December air. Chanthip motioned him to silence. Southep, her cousin, signaled to the three of them to climb into the canoe. Chanthip crawled up to the bow, her brother crammed in behind her, then Pepsi, her nephew, leaving hardly any room for Southep. He took one last look around, gave the canoe a firm push and scrambled aboard, trying not to splash. They were off! Chanthip’s heart leapt. In seconds, the Laotian riverbank receded into the fog. Goodbye, my family. Goodbye, Huei Sai. Goodbye, Laos – Land of a Million Elephants.

They paddled furiously, hunching forward, trying to stay down in the canoe. Chanthip bit her lip, tensing her muscles, terrified that the guards would hear them and train their rifles on their disappearing canoe. Please, Lord Buddha, keep the fog from lifting, she prayed, straining her eyes ahead towards Thailand.

“Try to paddle straight,” whispered Southep from the back of the canoe. “We want to land in Chiang Khong. Be careful the current doesn’t sweep us downstream.” No one else spoke. All their energy went into paddling in unison across the Mekong River. Darkness turned to gray. Dawn was approaching and with it the fog would disappear. Chanthip willed herself not to think what would happen if…. Oh, her arms ached with the unaccustomed, strenuous exercise. She longed to retie her hair, falling across her face. “Keep going,” whispered Vongchan. “We must be halfway across.”

Chanthip lost all sense of time and reality in the anonymity of the enveloping fog. Had they been paddling for twenty minutes? It seemed like an hour. She peered to left and right, constantly on the look out for boats coming down river or floating logs. Any obstacle could sink their flimsy craft.

“Look over there,” she whispered to Vongchan. “What are those shapes?”

He followed the direction of her head. “I think we’re near the Thai side,” he replied excitedly. “They may be fishing boats anchored in Chiang Khong. Stop paddling, everyone. Let’s drift in closer and run aground.” Through the fog, Chanthip saw forms like specters emerge that were indeed fishing boats.

“Over there,” Chanthip pointed, “I think we can put in by those bamboo.” Their canoe jerked as it touched bottom. She jumped into the shallow water and waded ashore. The boys pulled the canoe out of the water and ran after her, supposing that it would be recuperated by the black market for reuse by future escapees.

“Quick,” said Southep. “We must go as fast as we can to the City Hall in Chiang Khong. I hope we don’t meet anyone.”

“Why?” asked Pepsi. “We’re okay. We’re in Thailand.”

“You don’t understand,” replied Vongchan. “The locals here know that escaping Laotians probably carry money and jewelry on them. We’re not even safe from the Thai police. We’ll only be safe once we’re inside City Hall.”

Chanthip’s heart pounded as she ran past the ferry that linked Huei Sai with Chiang Kong. Soon they jogged through familiar streets, past the market where Chanthip often shopped with her grandmother for sugar, fish sauce and other staples that were difficult to get in Huei Sai. They raced up the steps of the City Hall two at a time and pushed open the door. A policeman took one good look at them and surmised their purpose. Chanthip stammered out that they wanted to see the mayor, and were refugees from Laos, seeking asylum. The policeman told them which room to go to fill in the necessary papers and be interviewed. He guessed that although Chanthip spoke in Lao, she would probably understand Thai, as they were similar languages. They entered a dark, musty room where another policeman leaned, half asleep, across his desk. A cat stretched to its feet and stared at them. The policeman gave them papers and pens asking where they were from and their ages.

“From Huei Sai, Laos. We crossed the Mekong by canoe, seeking asylum. I’m twenty-eight. My brother, Vongchan, is fourteen. My cousin, Southep, is nineteen and my nephew, Pepsi, is six,” answered Chanthip.

“Did anyone see you leave? How did you escape the guards?”

“We’ve been planning our escape for several weeks. We observed where the guards patrol and when they change shifts. We decided to escape this morning as the fog was really dense,” Chanthip told him.

“Fill in these forms. We need to know the truth, in order to decide what to do with you.” The policeman was not doing this for the first time. “You must stay in this building until we decide where to send you. We distribute food three times a day.”

The four were shown into a large, bare room with one window, through which the sun streamed. They lay down wearily on the floor, shivering as much from the cold as from the tension of the last few hours. They were thrilled to have escaped unharmed and to have found a safe haven before their next move. Discreetly, Chanthip adjusted the body belt under her clothes, containing a little money and jewelry, which she dare not take off for fear someone would steal it.

A few days later, the policeman called the four up to his desk. “We are trying to find space for you at one of the refugee camps for Laotian citizens. Of course, all camps are overcrowded. Maybe you don’t know that you must buy space inside the camps, unless you already have family there, willing to let you share their space. Do you have relatives in any of the camps near here?”

“Yes, sir,” began Chanthip carefully. “Our cousins stayed in Camp Bantong. When they resettled in America, they passed on their space to their friends, the Niem family. Please let us go to Camp Bantong to join them.”

The policeman noted various comments for the authorities at Camp Bantong. He told them if the Niems were resettling soon they might agree to sell them their space. Chanthip thanked him, taking care not to appear forward. Southep had warned her not to make herself look attractive. He had seen how men looked at her, and he advised her to stay close to him and keep a low profile. It was very boring having to stay in the town hall. They played games to keep Pepsi busy. The thought of being one step nearer to freedom kept their spirits up.

The policeman summoned them four days later, telling them they were in luck. Camp Bantong had accepted them because the Niem family was about to leave for America and would sell them their space. He gave them a pass to go there.

The bus stopped outside Camp Bantong. Thai soldiers stamped their pass and, looking them over, let them enter. There were more forms to complete, asking for addresses of relatives in foreign countries and where they wanted to be resettled. Their interviewer sent for Mr. Niem, whom they greeted in Lao fashion, with a polite bow, their hands pressed together in the nob, as if in prayer. He told them they could share the house until his family left the following week. As he led them through a maze of simple bamboo houses, Chanthip noticed people sitting outside with nothing to do but tend their cooking pots and watch them pass.

“You’ll survive here if you are self reliant,” said Mr. Niem, pushing aside the flimsy door and taking his shoes off. “It’s not much of a house, no electricity, but at least the roof keeps the rain off. We’ll sell you our sleeping mats, which help soften the bamboo floor. There are no door locks so carry your valuables on you. I hope you don’t stay here three years like we have.”

Mr. Niem motioned for Chanthip’s brother and cousin to sit outside with him. They talked in low tones and soon creased, folded bank notes exchanged hands. Chanthip and family settled into a routine, each with certain responsibilities. Vongchan went to the canteen to pick up their daily U.N. food rations and rice allowance. Chanthip did the house keeping and cooked outside. They took turns bringing water from the well, which luckily was only two minutes away. Southep’s job was to find out from their neighbors how best to survive and leave the camp as fast as possible. Pepsi was told just to stay out of trouble.

The next week, a Thai government official interviewed them, asking the reason for their escape from Laos. Chanthip explained that they left in fear for their lives. She told him that her father was a policeman, who was taken away without warning five years earlier in 1975 by the Pathet Lao, soon after they seized power. The authorities refused to tell his family what happened to him. Chanthip added that she taught middle school in Huei Sai, having received her diploma from the teacher training school in Luang Prabang. In her spare time she helped her mother and grandmother with the younger children. Her life was in limbo as, her father being absent, her mother would not dream of letting any young men court Chanthip. Six weeks ago, the government had sent her family word that their father would return to Huei Sai on a certain boat on a certain day! They were overjoyed to see him again. He told them of his life in a “reeducation” camp near the Vietnamese border, where he grew his own food in order to survive and worked in a gang, fixing roads and following orders.

Chanthip explained to the official how her father sadly told his family that although they were just reunited, Laos was no longer a good place to live. Chanthip and Vongchan must escape to Thailand quickly. There was no future for them at home. If they succeeded in getting into a Thai refugee camp, they stood a chance of being resettled abroad by international organizations.
With a heavy heart, Chanthip accepted her father’s decision because, like him, she also was a government employee. She knew how ruthlessly the Communists took people away without warning.

“Besides,” said Southep, “the Communists controlled our lives. They wanted to know every detail about us - how many chickens and cows we owned. They forced us to do what they said. After curfew each night we were prisoners in our homes.”

Chanthip added that her great aunt and family lived in Hartford, Connecticut, but they would take any offers in order to leave the camp quickly.

“Along with the other five thousand refugees in this camp,” the official remarked dryly. “We will contact the U.S. officials and ask them to put you on their list. Otherwise you could go to Australia, Canada, or France. Be prepared to stay here for years. Also be prepared to leave at short notice.

They left his office despondently, realizing they needed to earn money if they were to stay for a long time. Chanthip shook her black hair resolutely and decided to sew bags to sell to people leaving the camp. She could also earn money teaching children the alphabet. Southep and Vongchan decided to ask permission to leave camp to look for firewood for cooking in the dense forests surrounding them. This would make them feel free and useful as well as providing cash for extra food supplies.

Whenever Chanthip walked across camp, she liked to listen to her neighbors to catch any news. She often stopped to talk to Mrs. Phommasouvanh, who had also escaped from Huei Sai.
“Talking about our town makes me feel homesick,” said Mrs. Phommasouvanh. “Do you think the Communists will punish your family?”

“I think my family will play dumb, pretending we went on a trip to Vientiane or Luang Prabang.” Chanthip’s face saddened at the thought of her parents, grandmother and four remaining siblings. “I pray constantly that some day we’ll be reunited.”

Mrs. Phommasouvanh looked thoughtful. “May Lord Buddha grant your wish. Be positive. You are young, beautiful, professional. Life holds much in store for you.”

The days, weeks, and months passed. People arrived and departed. Chanthip watched them struggle into camp, as bewildered as she had been. She envied those leaving, their faces all smiles as they said goodbye. She did well selling bags to departing refugees. To relieve their boredom, Chanthip and family took free English classes in the camp, given by April, a young American woman. This tall Westerner seemed strange to them with her comical facial expressions, but her cheery laugh soon made them relax and want to learn.

Months later, a camp official called for Southep. He raced back to their tiny house, kicked off his shoes and pushed open the door, startling the others. “Guess what! Guess what!” he shouted. “I leave Thursday for America!”

“Wow!” They jumped to their feet, laughing and talking all at the same time.

“I’m going to Hartford, Connecticut to join my sister,” he exalted.

“Did they say anything about us?” Chanthip’s eyes narrowed.

“No, but as soon as I arrive, I’ll contact the organization that’s helping me and tell them to get you out.” They spent the evening talking about how Southep would like his new home. He felt badly that only he was chosen and tried hard to rein in his excitement.

The house felt strange without him. Chanthip, Vongchan and Pepsi kept guessing how long it would be until they left the refugee camp. Sometimes Chanthip felt discouraged when she met people who had been at the camp for several years. Am I going to spend my life in this prison? She concentrated harder on her English classes.

“Your English is improving. I hope you move to an English speaking country. But, if you go to France, you won’t have a problem as your French is great,” said April.

Vongchan ran into the classroom, bursting with news. “Chanthip, come! Come at once! The officer wants to talk to us,” he blurted out in Lao. They ran to the administrator, who showed them an official memorandum.

“You leave on Monday for USA, destination Hartford, Connecticut. Pack up and be ready at 9 a.m. We will give you your documents then.”

“What about Pepsi?” asked Chanthip.

“The authorities at City Hall in Chiang Khong say his parents arrived there from Laos. They will take your place here. We will resettle them as a family.”

Pepsi was excited to hear that his parents had escaped but sad to think he could not yet leave with the others.

Chanthip had flown only once before, last year, 1979, to Vientiane, the capital of Laos. This plane was much bigger. All the passengers were refugees, each wearing a huge name badge. She told Vongchan, “From Bangkok we fly via Tokyo to America, to California. We stay one night in San Francisco, before flying on to Hartford.”

Vongchan smiled. “I wonder what America’s like? I mean––apart from the movies.”

“April says its very different––modern and fast paced. Mai Tao and family in Hartford will help us get settled.”

Twenty hours later, Chanthip and Vongchan peered excitedly out the plane window as they circled above San Francisco. “Look at all those lights. How amazing,” Chanthip murmured.

“It’s as bright as day,” replied Vongchan, puzzled. “Why so many lights?”

They gazed on the silhouette of San Francisco unfurling beneath them––a tapestry of lights. Everyone on the plane fell silent with emotion as it touched down. The journey from the Land of a Million Elephants to the Land of a Million Lights had ended.