“No need.” She whisked So, there was only one option left: we had to build a bridge across the torrent.
While my wife and I took turns using the only spoon we had to scoop the rice, two or three men who had already eaten went to look for long stems of bamboo among the clumps that lined our path. We were lucky to have a couple of Hmong brothers as our guides. During the past five years, I had never seen anyone use a knife as deftly as the people of this tribe, especially when they used it to cut wood in the jungle. Cutting bamboo stems from their clump is highly skilled work for jungle dwellers. They’d pay for a mistake with their lives, as offerings to the Lord of the Jungle. Stories of chests pierced, throats gashed and main arteries slashed by bamboo stems were common in the mountains. Once, I saw a friend of mine knocked down for the count after a bamboo stem he was cutting had swung back and hit him right on the forehead. Only an expert could tell how the top of the stems intertwined and in which direction they’d swing when you hacked them at the base.
I had hardly started to roll myself a cigarette in a leaf after lunch than the hacking of bush knifes on bamboo stems started up. It resounded above the sizzle of the rain on the treetops and the roaring of the rapids, forming an odd rhythmic tune only its composer could fully appreciate and understand.
‘Even on our way to defeat, we still have to overcome obstacles,’ I thought as I puffed clouds of smoke into the air.
It didn’t take long to gather the amount of long stems we needed. The strongest man in our group was chosen to walk some distance upstream in order to drift back with the current and grab a branch of the nearest treetop in front of us. As we extended the first bamboo stem from the bank, his duty was to fasten it to one of the branches slightly above water level. The second stem was then held out parallel to the first and again my friend tied it tightly to the branch. Our makeshift bridge was beginning to take shape.
One of us crawled on it and sat astride the stems, helping to put in place two more big bamboo stems so that they reached the next bush further out in the stream. We used the same method to place stems from one bush to the next, tying them up securely with rope or creepers while some of us waited in the water to grab the stems and coordinate all the work. We all helped one another and did whatever had to be done as best we could. Boisterous shouts kept resounding and sometimes those who had to stay in the water for hours on end would complain about the cold. The rain was still falling and the current kept flowing furiously.
Before dusk, the bamboo bridge over the rapids was finally ready. Its width was that of two stems laid across the stream in a zigzag course of four or five segments. It stretched just above the water and kept wobbling with the swaying bushes we used as poles. At waist level, along the whole length, we had tied a thin rope for our balance, to grab and pull as we walked across.
We gathered our weapons and personal belongings and started to cross one at a time. It was only then that we noticed that the big monitor lizard stuck on a branch on the opposite bank was no longer there. In its struggle it must have been whisked away by the current while we were busy building the bridge.
I learned about my mother’s death in November 1977, almost four months after she had died. I was then staying on the Hin Rong Kla mountain range. The letter reached me, long after the sun had set behind the ridge, as I sat in a meeting with several of my friends. I unfolded it and read it under torchlight; when I was fully acquainted with its contents, I slung the rifle over my shoulder and left the hut quietly to walk alone on a small jungle path under the sparse light of the moon and stars filtering through the branches.
I don’t know how long I sat against a tree trunk, my face pressed against the barrel of the rifle. I only know the tears that ran down the barrel to the chamber of the assault rifle glistened in the dark and seemed like they would never end.
Near dawn, I found myself in the hut, gazing mournfully at the fire we had built to protect ourselves from the cold. The flames were blurred as if the fire stood behind a sheet of clear water. When I blinked, they heaved along with the folds of the water curtain. My soul mate was stroking my arm as if to let me know that no matter what, we still had each other and I wasn’t alone.
I knew that, yet I couldn’t help but recall that horse-shaped piggy bank. I would have liked to have told Mother that I had never thought of taking advantage of her or the three young ones. If I had taken the five-baht note to play cards with my friends at the back of the market, it was because I thought it would be a way out of the situation we faced. I never intended to make Mother grieve; I had only forgotten to think carefully enough, that some solutions may make a bad situation worse.
The sun began to set very rapidly. I lifted the knapsack which only held the manuscripts of short stories I had written and slung it
“No need.” She whisked So, there was only one option left: we had to build a bridge across the torrent.
While my wife and I took turns using the only spoon we had to scoop the rice, two or three men who had already eaten went to look for long stems of bamboo among the clumps that lined our path. We were lucky to have a couple of Hmong brothers as our guides. During the past five years, I had never seen anyone use a knife as deftly as the people of this tribe, especially when they used it to cut wood in the jungle. Cutting bamboo stems from their clump is highly skilled work for jungle dwellers. They’d pay for a mistake with their lives, as offerings to the Lord of the Jungle. Stories of chests pierced, throats gashed and main arteries slashed by bamboo stems were common in the mountains. Once, I saw a friend of mine knocked down for the count after a bamboo stem he was cutting had swung back and hit him right on the forehead. Only an expert could tell how the top of the stems intertwined and in which direction they’d swing when you hacked them at the base.
I had hardly started to roll myself a cigarette in a leaf after lunch than the hacking of bush knifes on bamboo stems started up. It resounded above the sizzle of the rain on the treetops and the roaring of the rapids, forming an odd rhythmic tune only its composer could fully appreciate and understand.
‘Even on our way to defeat, we still have to overcome obstacles,’ I thought as I puffed clouds of smoke into the air.
It didn’t take long to gather the amount of long stems we needed. The strongest man in our group was chosen to walk some distance upstream in order to drift back with the current and grab a branch of the nearest treetop in front of us. As we extended the first bamboo stem from the bank, his duty was to fasten it to one of the branches slightly above water level. The second stem was then held out parallel to the first and again my friend tied it tightly to the branch. Our makeshift bridge was beginning to take shape.
One of us crawled on it and sat astride the stems, helping to put in place two more big bamboo stems so that they reached the next bush further out in the stream. We used the same method to place stems from one bush to the next, tying them up securely with rope or creepers while some of us waited in the water to grab the stems and coordinate all the work. We all helped one another and did whatever had to be done as best we could. Boisterous shouts kept resounding and sometimes those who had to stay in the water for hours on end would complain about the cold. The rain was still falling and the current kept flowing furiously.
Before dusk, the bamboo bridge over the rapids was finally ready. Its width was that of two stems laid across the stream in a zigzag course of four or five segments. It stretched just above the water and kept wobbling with the swaying bushes we used as poles. At waist level, along the whole length, we had tied a thin rope for our balance, to grab and pull as we walked across.
We gathered our weapons and personal belongings and started to cross one at a time. It was only then that we noticed that the big monitor lizard stuck on a branch on the opposite bank was no longer there. In its struggle it must have been whisked away by the current while we were busy building the bridge.
I learned about my mother’s death in November 1977, almost four months after she had died. I was then staying on the Hin Rong Kla mountain range. The letter reached me, long after the sun had set behind the ridge, as I sat in a meeting with several of my friends. I unfolded it and read it under torchlight; when I was fully acquainted with its contents, I slung the rifle over my shoulder and left the hut quietly to walk alone on a small jungle path under the sparse light of the moon and stars filtering through the branches.
I don’t know how long I sat against a tree trunk, my face pressed against the barrel of the rifle. I only know the tears that ran down the barrel to the chamber of the assault rifle glistened in the dark and seemed like they would never end.
Near dawn, I found myself in the hut, gazing mournfully at the fire we had built to protect ourselves from the cold. The flames were blurred as if the fire stood behind a sheet of clear water. When I blinked, they heaved along with the folds of the water curtain. My soul mate was stroking my arm as if to let me know that no matter what, we still had each other and I wasn’t alone.
I knew that, yet I couldn’t help but recall that horse-shaped piggy bank. I would have liked to have told Mother that I had never thought of taking advantage of her or the three young ones. If I had taken the five-baht note to play cards with my friends at the back of the market, it was because I thought it would be a way out of the situation we faced. I never intended to make Mother grieve; I had only forgotten to think carefully enough, that some solutions may make a bad situation worse.
The sun began to set very rapidly. I lifted the knapsack which only held the manuscripts of short stories I had written and slung it
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