Across the Mekong River (3 page)

In early April
, Yer and I had left Long Chieng with Fong, Fue, and Nou, only a month old, and our remaining relatives, five households now. We were part of the Ly clan, one of the eighteen Hmong clans. In Laos we only had clan names, which we used before our given name. I ran into an old friend from my early school days, Yang Chia in Long Chieng. We had grown up in neighboring villages, and Chia married my cousin Ai. After the men in my family discussed our future, we decided to join Chia and six other Yang families to build a new village near Muang Cha.

We
hiked three days to the town of Muang Cha, set on a broad plain in the mountains. It had grown into a large Hmong settlement during the war with schools through second level. I wanted my boys to have an education, to go on to the French high school in Vientiane, as I had. Perhaps even to college in France or somewhere abroad. It was the key to their future. With money I had saved, I bought six chickens, two sows, and a hog. We found a site for our village on a gentle slope near a stream, a half-day walk from Muang Cha, and set to work.

Now t
he boys waded knee-deep in the stream, splashing one another and screeching at the cold drops trickling down their skin. Fue, two years younger, had a talent for drawing Fong out of his quiet reserve. Tiny fish, too small to eat, scoured the shallows around boulders and the boys’ skinny legs.

“Come now.
Who is hungry as an elephant?” I called. Fue trumpeted at the top of his lungs and swung one arm in the air as he raced back.

I took the baby
from Yer and sat under the tree, rocking our tiny bundle and soothing her fussy cries. Yer spread the meal on a round mat. Nou’s fingers grasped my thumb, and I thought I had never seen a child as beautiful. Her lips formed a little round O, and her eyes grew enormous as she studied my face.

Fue leaned over my shoulder, fascinated by this strange creature
that filled his mother’s days. He gently touched her hand. “When will she play with me?”

“When she is older,” Yer said.
“Be patient.”

Fue
turned to me and blinked. “Will she like me?”

I laughed. “Of course.
And you can teach her everything you know.”

Fong
frowned and shooed away a fly. “But she’s only a girl. She can’t do the same things.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps.
But she will find her talents and be special in her own way.”

Fue dove into his bowl of rice.
“I’ll show her how to use a sling shot.”

“I’ll teach her how to build a house,” Fong said.

After dinner the boys and I played kickball until the light faded into deep shadows and it was time for bed. In the house, I crouched next to their bamboo platform built low to the ground. Yer sat nearby on our bed, nursing Nou. Every night I told one story of my adventures in the jungle or related one of the Hmong folk tales that had been told and retold, one generation to the next.

Fong leaned forward.
“Tell the one about the snake.”

I shook my head.
“You’ve heard it many times.”

Fong bounced up and down. “Please, oh please.
I want that one.”

Fue’s face scrunched up with anticipation. “Yes, yes.”

“If you wish,” I said, laughing softly. “Well, I was with my men just south of Xieng Khouang. We spent the night deep in the forest.” I dropped my voice to a low whisper and leaned in. Their eyes became large in the light from the lantern. “It was completely dark. As we lay on our knapsacks, noises filled the jungle like many instruments playing a song.” I embellished the details to drag out the story, adding a tiger’s roar and a hooting owl as their anticipation grew. A moth swooped into the light, and the boys started. “At last I fell asleep and when I woke the next morning, I felt something heavy on my stomach like a big stone. I opened my eyes, and what do you think I found?”

Fue
clasped his hands together. His shoulders hunched up as his voice slid into a squeak. “A big green snake, coiled on your stomach. Asleep!”

“Is this true, Father?” Fong
asked.

“I would never lie.
So I waited and waited, hardly breathing. I have to admit, I was very scared. One bite and I might be dead. An hour went by, and still the snake slept. I was so hungry, my stomach began to growl.”

“And the snake put its head up and looked you in the eyes,” Fong said.

“Yes. He stared at me as if thinking about what to do. I held my breath. His tongue flickered about several times. Then he slipped onto the ground and disappeared into the brush. Just like that!”

Fue scooted onto the floor, his tongue darting in and out, and waved goo
dbye as he slithered off. We all laughed.

Our third April in the new village, we cleared another field to plant with corn, yams, bitter melon, sugarcane, and opium. Last year’s opium had provided enough cash for new tools, a horse, and another cow. Our crops had been bountiful the first year, but each season the plants leached the soil and rains eroded another layer of dirt. We were constantly shifting to new land, letting the old fields lay fallow for the soil to regenerate.

We located a mostly level site three miles from the village at
the bottom of a forested hill. Over the next two weeks we cut down the pines and hardwoods, stacked the logs for firewood, and burned the remaining stumps and brush. I worked next to my brothers Tong and Shone, cousin Shoua, and Uncle Boua. We threw our hoes deep into the earth, lifting great clods of dirt, uncovering rocks and old roots, and working the nutrient-rich ash into the ground. We edged our way up and down the field, carving out the last few rows. My arms and shoulders ached and calluses covered my hands, but the labor of these familiar tasks fortified me.

Fong and Fue followed behind me, removing large rocks and tree roots from th
e rows to make room for seeds. Fong lifted a rock almost a third his weight and struggled over to the side of the field. He dropped it onto his neat stack that came up to his chest. He kept at it without complaint as steady and plodding as a water buffalo. Occasionally, he looked up for my nod of approval.

I turned around to find Fue jumping and hopping like a frog across three rows in pursuit of a cricket.
“Fue, help your brother. Look at all these rocks,” I called.

He grinned and returned to his place, picking up a small rock and thr
owing it hard into the forest. The rock made a loud thwack as it hit a tree. “Did you see, Father? I hit the trunk.”

I shook my head and smiled at his delight wit
h the smallest accomplishment. As I continued working my hoe down the row, I wondered how it was possible that my two boys had such opposite temperaments. During the wheat harvest I had taught Fong to use the scythe. He was an apt and serious student, careful and methodical in swinging the blade. But I did not know when I could trust Fue to try this. He was only fit to help feed the cows and pigs, pulling their tails and bursting out with giggles when the poor beasts complained. Fue’s mouth ran with a million questions and nonsensical stories. I only knew that when my boys stared up at me, their faces filled with awe, I was flooded with love.

I sto
od and stretched my sore back. Fue crouched over a fresh pile of dirt, prodding a large beetle with a stick. He ran to my side and threw his arms around my leg. “Come look. It is the biggest beetle I have ever seen. He is shiny and the color of new leaves.”

How could I be mad?
Each boy was special. Each a joy.

Yer arrived with lunch as the sun
climbed to the top of the sky. After eating, Fong and I would pass down the rows, pounding our metal spikes into the loose dirt. Yer and Fue would follow behind, dropping corn seeds into the holes and covering them with soil.

Nou, now two
, was tied to Yer’s back in a brightly colored, embroidered carrier. Other parents left their little ones in the village with the elders who were too old to work the fields. But Yer refused to part with her baby, still nervous from the years of war. She untied Nou and set her on the ground.

Nou spotted me and
tried to toddle on her wobbly legs to my side but fell. I lifted her into my arms. Her little hands grabbed my neck as she held her chubby cheek close to mine. I pointed to my other cheek, “
Comme ca
,” I said, the way I had seen in a French film once in Vientiane. And Nou snuggled on the other side. Everyday, over and over, we played this game.

We sat under
the banyan trees with our family members and ate sticky rice and roasted sweet potatoes. The boys doted on Nou, sharing their food and pretending to hide from her until she laughed so hard she got the hiccups. She attempted to chase after them, stumbling and falling and clapping her hands. Each day was a treasure, a momentary gift like a precious crystal of water languishing on a leaf until the wind scattered it dry.

Around this time, the peace began to unravel. In the evenings after dinner we listened on the short wave radio to the news reports on Lao National Radio and the U.S. sponsored Voice of America broadcasts from Thailand. Sometimes, we tuned in to Radio Pathet Lao, afraid of what we might hear, but more afraid not to know what they were saying. Details on the final terms of the coalition government in Vientiane remained unsettled. Negotiations continued, the announcers said, as the parties worked toward reconciliation. Each side blamed the other for the stalemate.

Every few weeks we walked to the market in Muang Cha to trade our pr
oduce for items we needed. I spoke with old friends here, who were closer to the truth. The news grew more disturbing. The coalition government was disintegrating. The peace agreements were being renegotiated. The Pathet Lao edged Royal Lao officials out of ministries and launched massive propaganda campaigns. The call went out to Lao workers to join the struggle for freedom and equality.
The government must purge the puppets of the American imperialists
, they said. The rhetoric echoed throughout the cities and into the countryside. Farmers and workers, caught up in the wave of change, took to the streets of Vientiane and Luang Prabang, demanding the Pathet Lao take control of the government. Rumors filtered in of North Vietnamese troops moving ever farther west.

Un
easiness settled in my middle. A friend told me of former Hmong soldiers who were organizing forces and gathering arms. If the Pathet Lao took over the country, they would be ready to fight again.

In early May, Uncle Boua received a message from General Vang Pao calling a meeting o
f clan leaders in Long Chieng. By now everyone had heard the chilling pronouncement on Radio Pathet Lao--
the Hmong Special Forces are the enemy of the Lao people; the Pathet Lao will duly punish or wipe them out
.

I accompanied Uncle Boua to Long Chieng and attended the meetings at
the General’s house. For days leaders argued and struggled over what to do, their faces lined with worry and fear. Should we take up arms again, or was it best to flee the country? If we left, where would we go? Who would take us? Many could not contain their anger, ready to fight once more to save our country. But emotions would not be enough to win a war. We needed arms and support. Being one of the younger men, I kept quiet. Then Uncle Boua, a steady voice of reason, said that without the Americans, fighting would be futile. I had promised myself never to leave my family again. There must be another solution, a way to live in peace.

Days passed, but no decisions were reac
hed. Then I heard the devastating news. My friend and former commander, Blong, came to me. After the ceasefire, he had joined the Royal Lao army and stayed on with Vang Pao. His face was ashen and filled with deep lines, making him look much older than his twenty-eight years. He suggested we take a walk so we could speak in private.

We strolled in silence down the jumble of dirt lanes between hastily built houses, most of
them nothing more than tiny huts. They had been slapped together with bamboo, wood, tin, cardboard boxes, whatever was available. The makeshift town had grown up around the air base over the war years as more and more Hmong were driven from the hills to seek refuge. Many of the homes had been deserted after the cease fire agreement as families left to rebuild their lives in the mountains once more. A few had stayed on. Laundry hung on ropes, and the smell of onions and cilantro and garlic wafted through open doorways mixed with the pervasive smell of garbage and open sewage drains. Barefoot children screamed and chased each other up and down the dusty paths, fighting with sticks. A group of boys played a game with wood tops. As we continued on, a naked baby girl stood in a doorway and cried. Her nose ran, and her face was streaked with dirt. I thought of my own three children at home.

At last we reached the edge of town and continued on the path to the neatly planted vegetable gardens, lush with the promise of newly sprouted herbs, mustard greens, broccoli, onions, and bitter melon.

“The North Vietnamese have taken Sala Phou Khoun,” Blong said at last.

My heart sank.
This was the last stronghold of the Royal Lao government. Now there was no defense left against the Pathet Lao. The communist troops would march into Vientiane and take over the capitol.