A bamboo bridge over rapids
Seksan Prasertkul
Some stories seem to be buried stubbornly in our memory. They usually come back to haunt
us on nights of loneliness, at moments when we let our mind drift with the whisper of the sea
or the sighs of the breeze. They return time and time again like whirling waters and form a
sad melody of life, intruding faintly, regardless of place, whenever we are engrossed in the
present.
On the last day of September 1980, my eight friends and I were walking down a high ridge
and, a little before noon, we reached the upper course of the Kha Khaeng stream. Monsoon
rains had been falling for days on end, at times seeming to split the whole range asunder, at
others melting in a fine drizzle that lasted from dawn to dusk. Even when the rain stopped,
the whole jungle was still as dim and damp as a deserted theatre. The smell of old leaves and
soggy rotting logs had filled our nostrils along the way.
Taking the ravine near the source of the Khwae Yai River as our starting point, we had
walked for five full days in the rain, up and down steep mountain slopes. We were coming
from the west, cutting across the common borders of Uthai Thani, Tak and Kanchanaburi
provinces in order to reach the jungle’s edge at a place called Sap Fa Pha. Another day and
we would reach our destination, provided we could safely cross the Kha Khaeng rapids. It
was the end of the rainy season, and the water was at its highest level. The stream, turbid like
a sea of boiling mud, had overflowed its banks and spread wide. All along its course we
could see a scattering of half-submerged bushes, which swayed about like drowning men
struggling wildly as they called out for help. Whole trees – roots, trunks and all – drifted
down, and some got stuck on bushes which the current hadn’t yet torn up.
On the opposite bank, a little beyond our route, a large monitor lizard had been swept onto
a branch, to which it clung, bobbing up and down under the thrashing of the current; it was
unable to climb up the bank and unable to let go, as it would be whisked away by the rapids.
What a pathetic sight!
It was a fully grown lizard which must have gone through a lot before being caught in the
stream…
Before deciding to leave the mountains at the end of September 1980, I’d spent more than
five years of my life in the jungle. It hadn’t been easy for someone who happened to be born
and lived for nearly two decades in a village by the sea, and all the more so for someone who
A bamboo bridge over rapids
Seksan Prasertkul
Some stories seem to be buried stubbornly in our memory. They usually come back to haunt
us on nights of loneliness, at moments when we let our mind drift with the whisper of the sea
or the sighs of the breeze. They return time and time again like whirling waters and form a
sad melody of life, intruding faintly, regardless of place, whenever we are engrossed in the
present.
On the last day of September 1980, my eight friends and I were walking down a high ridge
and, a little before noon, we reached the upper course of the Kha Khaeng stream. Monsoon
rains had been falling for days on end, at times seeming to split the whole range asunder, at
others melting in a fine drizzle that lasted from dawn to dusk. Even when the rain stopped,
the whole jungle was still as dim and damp as a deserted theatre. The smell of old leaves and
soggy rotting logs had filled our nostrils along the way.
Taking the ravine near the source of the Khwae Yai River as our starting point, we had
walked for five full days in the rain, up and down steep mountain slopes. We were coming
from the west, cutting across the common borders of Uthai Thani, Tak and Kanchanaburi
provinces in order to reach the jungle’s edge at a place called Sap Fa Pha. Another day and
we would reach our destination, provided we could safely cross the Kha Khaeng rapids. It
was the end of the rainy season, and the water was at its highest level. The stream, turbid like
a sea of boiling mud, had overflowed its banks and spread wide. All along its course we
could see a scattering of half-submerged bushes, which swayed about like drowning men
struggling wildly as they called out for help. Whole trees – roots, trunks and all – drifted
down, and some got stuck on bushes which the current hadn’t yet torn up.
On the opposite bank, a little beyond our route, a large monitor lizard had been swept onto
a branch, to which it clung, bobbing up and down under the thrashing of the current; it was
unable to climb up the bank and unable to let go, as it would be whisked away by the rapids.
What a pathetic sight!
It was a fully grown lizard which must have gone through a lot before being caught in the
stream…
Before deciding to leave the mountains at the end of September 1980, I’d spent more than
five years of my life in the jungle. It hadn’t been easy for someone who happened to be born
and lived for nearly two decades in a village by the sea, and all the more so for someone who
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เป็นสะพานไม้ไผ่ ผ่านแก่ง
เสกสรรค์ ประเสริฐกุล
บางเรื่องดูเหมือนจะฝังหัวชนฝาในความทรงจำของเรา พวกเขามักจะกลับมาหลอกหลอน
เราในคืนแห่งความเหงา ที่ช่วงเวลาเมื่อเราปล่อยให้ล่องลอยจิตใจของเราด้วย เสียงกระซิบแห่งท้องทะเล
หรือถอนหายใจของสายลม พวกเขากลับมาเวลาและเวลาอีกครั้ง เหมือนขว้างน้ำและรูปแบบ
เมโลดี้เศร้าของชีวิต รบกวนๆ โดยไม่คำนึงถึงสถานที่ whenever we are engrossed in the
present.
On the last day of September 1980, my eight friends and I were walking down a high ridge
and, a little before noon, we reached the upper course of the Kha Khaeng stream. Monsoon
rains had been falling for days on end, at times seeming to split the whole range asunder, at
others melting in a fine drizzle that lasted from dawn to dusk.เมื่อฝนหยุด
ทั้งป่า ก็ยังเป็นที่มืด และชื้นเป็นร้างโรงละคร กลิ่นของใบเก่า
เปียกเน่าบันทึกเต็มของเราจมูกตลอดทาง
ถ่ายลำธารใกล้แหล่งของแม่น้ำแควใหญ่เป็นจุดเริ่มต้นของเรา เรามี
เดิน 5 วันเต็มในสายฝน , ขึ้นและลงลาดภูเขาที่สูงชัน เราจะมา
จากตะวันตกตัดข้ามชายแดนทั่วไปของจังหวัดอุทัยธานี ตาก และจังหวัดกาญจนบุรี
เพื่อที่จะไปถึงขอบของป่าในสถานที่ที่เรียกว่า SAP ฟ้าผา . วันอื่นและ
เราจะไปให้ถึงปลายทางของเรา ให้เราสามารถอย่างปลอดภัยข้ามขาแข้ง แก่ง มัน
เป็นปลายฤดูฝน น้ำก็อยู่ในระดับสูงสุดของ กระแสขุ่นเหมือน
ทะเลเดือด โคลน had overflowed its banks and spread wide. All along its course we
could see a scattering of half-submerged bushes, which swayed about like drowning men
struggling wildly as they called out for help. Whole trees – roots, trunks and all – drifted
down, and some got stuck on bushes which the current hadn’t yet torn up.
On the opposite bank, a little beyond our route,จิ้งจกหน้าจอใหญ่ถูกกวาดลง
สาขา ที่ตูดกระดกขึ้นลง , ภายใต้เจ้าของปัจจุบัน ; มันเป็น
ไม่สามารถปีนขึ้นและธนาคารไม่สามารถปล่อย เหมือนจะแกว่งไปตามแก่ง
นี่น่าสงสารจริงๆเลย !
มันโตเต็มที่ จิ้งจก ซึ่งต้องผ่านอะไรมากมาย ก่อนที่จะถูกจับในกระแส
. . . . . . .Before deciding to leave the mountains at the end of September 1980, I’d spent more than
five years of my life in the jungle. It hadn’t been easy for someone who happened to be born
and lived for nearly two decades in a village by the sea, and all the more so for someone who
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